
Class S V4^/.f 

Book , v 

CoipghtN 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



<Cfce O&lorp of tfje Commonplace 



DR. J. R. MILLER'S BOOKS 



A Heabt Garden 
Beauty of Every Day 
Beauty of Self-Control 
Bethlehem to Olivet 
Book of Comfort 
Building of Character 
Come ye Apart 
Dr. Miller's Year Book 
Evening Thoughts 
Every Day of Life 
Finding the Way 
For the Best Things 
Gate Beautiful 
Glimpses through Life's 

Windows 
Glory of the Common- 
place 

Golden Gate of Prayer 
Hidden Life 



Joy of Service 
Lesson of Love 
Making the Most of 
Life 

Ministry of Comfort 
Morning Thoughts 
Personal Friendships of 

Jesus 
Silent Times 
Story of a Busy Life 
Strength and Beauty 
Things that Endure 
Things to Live For 
Upper Currents 
When the Song Begins 
Wider Life 

Young People's Prob- 
lems 



BOOKLETS 



Beauty of Kindness 
Blessing of Cheerful- 
ness 

By the Still Waters 
Christmas Making 
Cure for Care 
Face of the Master 
Gentle Heart 
Girls : Faults and Ideals 
Glimpses of the Heav- 
enly Life 
Go Forward 
How? When? Where? 
In Perfect Peace 
Inner Life 
Joy of the Lord 



Learning to Love 
Loving my Neighbor 
Marriage Altab 
Mary of Bethany 
Master's Friendships 
Secret of Gladness 
Secret of Love 
Secrets of Happy Home 
Life 

Summer Gathering 
To-day and To-morrow 
Turning Northward 
Unto the Hills 
Young Men : Faults and 
Ideals 



Cfie OStorp of 
Cfje Commonplace 



PARABLES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
FROM THE BOOKS OF 

J. R. MILLER 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY 

JOHN T. FARIS 



NEW YORK 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 




Copyright, 1918, by Thomas Y. Crowell Company. 
Published September, 1913. 



/6-H 



©CI.A351551 

1^6 f 



FOREWORD 



H OW was Dr. Miller abje to write so as to 
reach the hearts of the hundreds of thou- 
sands who bought his books? The question 
has been asked many times by those who have 
noted the fact that the sales of these most 
helpful volumes have totaled more than two 
million copies. Perhaps one of the best an- 
swers was made by one who said, "He knew 
how to glorify the commonplace." He said 
ordinary things about ordinary people in 
most unusual ways. He illuminated every 
chapter by apt and striking illustrations 
from the everyday life of people around him. 
He had a wonderful faculty for taking fa- 
miliar incidents and giving to them new 
applications. He used as illustrations things 
that no one else would have thought of, and 
the reader could only wonder why he had 
never seen the application himself. 

[v] 



Jporetoorb 



In 1893 a volume of selected illustrations 
was used under the title, "Glimpses through 
Life's Windows." Since that time readers 
have urged the publication of a similar vol- 
ume made up from later writings. With his 
usual modesty Dr. Miller was accustomed to 
reply that there would be no demand for 
such a booh. However, he finally decided to 
give his readers what they sought. During 
the closing years of his life he thought of 
the book as one of the things he hoped to 
do, but he never found time to make the 
selections. 

As his associate in editorial work I learned 

of his plans, and have attempted to carry 

them out. T m -n 

John T. Faeis. 

Philadelphia, April, 1918. 



[vi] 



CONTENTS 



I. 


IMaking Ready for Life 


Pag0 1 


II. 


Character Building 


13 


III. 


Growing like Christ 


53 


IV. 


Ministering by the Way 


89 


V. 


Serving the Lord 


113 


VI. 


Ourselves and Others 


139 


VII. 


Helping by Unselfishness 


169 


VIII. 


Home Lessons 


189 


IX. 


Life among the Lowly 


213 


X. 


Transfiguration 


229 


XI. 


Learning by Suffering 


253 


XII. 


Looking on the Bright Side 


275 


XIII. 


"Thy Will be Done" 


301 


XIV. 


The Love of God 


315 


XV. 


Prayer Lessons 


335 


XVI. 


The Vision Glorious 


357 



[vii] 



I 

Jfr&afemg fteab|> for Htfe 



Iteafmtg Jtealip for TLiSt 

St^fung of 9?anS0Ot! 

It used to be a custom for travelers in Swit- 
zerland to bring home clusters of the edel- 
weiss. The flower is not sought because of 
its beauty or for its fragrance, but in recog- 
nition of its bravery and victoriousness in 
living and blooming under hard conditions. 
It grows on the Alps and Pyrenees, at lofty 
altitudes, where almost nothing else lives, and 
on crags difficult of access, and is among the 
hardiest of all plants. Thus the edelweiss be- 
comes the symbol of noble life that endures 
hardness, that is victorious amid antagonisms, 
that rises superior to obstacles. 

The man who has never known hardship, 
who never has had to practice self-denial or 
make a personal sacrifice, may be the envy of 
other men whose lives have been one continued 
[3] 



C&e <t$\Qxy of tfje Commonplace 



struggle. They may think that if they could 
have had his easy circumstances they could 
have made a great deal more of their life. But 
really their chance in life thus far has been 
far better than his. Manhood is made in the 
field of struggle and hardship, not in ways 
of ease and luxury. Hindrances are oppor- 
tunities. Difficulty is a school for man- 
hood. 

Strength is the glory of manhood. Yet it 
is not easy to be strong — it is easier to be 
weak and to drift. It is easier for the boy in 
school not to work hard to get his lessons, 
but to let them go, and then at the last de- 
pend on some other boy to help him through. 
It is easier, when something happens to make 
you irritable, just to fly into a temper and to 
say bitter words, than it is to keep quiet and 
self-controlled. It is easier, when you are 
with other young people, and they are about 
to do something that you know to be un- 
worthy, just to go with them, than it is to 
say, "I cannot do this wickedness against 
God." It is easier to be weak than to be 
[4] 



leaking fteabp for Htfe 



strong. But we know where weakness leads 
us in the end. 

<E$e Clfliag to 1Slt&&inQ 

A Christian woman tells of her experience 
in making a fuller consecration to Christ. 
"Did you ever have a person in your home," 
she asks, "who acted as a perpetual rasp on 
the feelings of your household? I had. One 
day when I had nearly lost my faith and was 
sinking in the black waters of despair, I 
called on Christ to help me or I would perish. 
And what do you think He asked me to do? 
To love this woman. This was the only lad- 
der He offered me out of the black depths. 
Then I grew uglier than ever, and almost 
hated my Saviour. The struggle continued 
until I could stand it no longer. In agony 
I rushed to my closet and besought Jesus to 
help me. It seemed then as though in a most 
tender, loving voice, He asked, 'Can't you love 
her for my sake?' I said, 'Yes, Lord, I will.' 
At once peace filled my heart. My feelings 
[«] 



Cfje O&orp of tfje Commonplace 



toward her changed entirely. I had yielded 
my will to Christ." She had heard the Mas- 
ter's voice, and was following Him. That to 
which He had called her was not easy, — it had 
on it the print of the nails, — but it was the 
way to blessing and joy. 

Preparing t$i ftltbtttfttg 

A train was sweeping along in the bright 
sunshine, when an attendant passed through 
the cars and lighted the lamps. The pas- 
sengers wondered why this should be done at 
midday; but while they were talking about 
it, asking what it meant, the train plunged 
into a long, dark tunnel. Then all under- 
stood why the lamps had been lighted back 
there in the sunshine. This providing of 
light in advance prepared for the gloom in 
the tunnel's deep night. This illustrates what 
God's words stored in the heart do for us 
when our path suddenly bends into the dark- 
ness of sorrow. He who in the sunny days 
has not made the divine promises his own, 
[6] 



leaking Jteabp for Htfe 



when trouble comes has no comforts to sustain 
him. But he who has pondered the holy word, 
and laid up in memory its precious truths and 
assurances, when called to pass through afflic- 
tion has light in his dwelling. 

Ufa ^abit ot mm JLMw 

A stage driver had held the lines for many 
years, and when he grew old, his hands were 
crooked into hooks, and his fingers were so 
stiffened that they could not be straightened 
out. There is a similar process which goes on 
in men's souls when they continue to do the 
same things over and over. One who is trained 
from childhood to be gentle, kindly, patient, 
to control the temper, to speak softly, to be 
loving and charitable, will grow into the radi- 
ant beauty of love. One who accustoms him- 
self to think habitually and only of noble and 
worthy things, who sets his affections on 
things above, and strives to reach "whatso- 
ever things are true, whatsoever things are 
honest, whatsoever things are pure, whatso- 
[7] 



Cfje <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



ever things are lovely," will grow continually 
upward, toward spiritual beauty. But on the 
other hand, if one gives way from childhood 
to all ugly tempers, all resentful feelings, all 
bitterness and anger, his life will shape itself 
into the unbeauty of these dispositions. One 
whose mind turns to debasing things, unholy 
things, unclean, will find his whole soul grow- 
ing toward the earth in permanent moral 
curvature. 

InttQtity tfjat €o&t& 

Mr. Robert C. Ogden relates the following 
incident: "I will tell you what I consider 
an example of business honesty. A friend of 
mine, who died not long ago, held securities 
of a certain railroad property. Shortly be- 
fore his death some one told him, on unim- 
peachable authority, that the railroad was 
about to go to pieces, and that he had better 
unload the securities. But he refused to do 
it, for some one else would have been the loser. 
[8] 



^afemg Cteabp for Htfe 



And he was not a man of means. Sure enough, 
the railroad company went to pieces. It was 
put into the hands of a receiver, and my 
friend's securities were reduced to almost a 
nominal value." 

"How can I learn the lesson?" some one 
asks. Christ will teach you. He says, "Come 
unto me, and learn of me." "The orange," 
says the Rev. W. L. Watkinson, "was origi- 
nally a bitter berry, yet it has been trans- 
formed and transfigured into an apple of 
gold. And our poor, cold, selfish hearts are 
capable of being wonderfully ennobled and 
adorned by the riches of love, compassion, 
sympathy and bountifulness." 

<H$e preparation tfjat Counts* 

Some years since a party of Americans were 
about to leave Cairo for a journey across the 
desert. Before setting out, they bought ves- 
sels in which to carry water. Each one chose 
the kind of vessel that pleased him. One found 
[9] 



Qti)t OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



jars of brass, whose fine designs attracted 
him. Another purchased porcelain vessels of 
rare beauty. A third, however, took some 
plain earthenware bottles. The way across 
the desert was long and wearisome. The heat 
was intense. Every drop of water was of 
value. The brass vessels heated; and the 
water was made impure, and unfit for use. 
The costly porcelain jugs cracked in the heat 
and the water was lost. But the plain earthen- 
ware bottles kept the water pure and sweet 
until the journey was ended. 

We go out every morning to trudge over 
desert paths. We should be sure that on the 
Sabbath we make preparation that shall not 
fail us on the journey. Mere idle rest will 
not give it to us. We cannot get it from the 
Sunday newspaper, from the latest novel, 
from mere literary books, or from studying 
works of art. But if we turn our face to 
God's house on God's day, and commune with 
Him, filling our earthenware vessels of faith 
and love with the water of life, we shall not 
faint by the way. 

Lioj 



JflBafems Uteatrp for Htfe 



fein at fyt Igeatt 

Not all the wrecks of life occur in the early 
days. A majestic tree fell at its prime — fell 
on a calm evening, when there was scarcely 
a breath of air stirring. It had withstood a 
century of storms, and now was broken off 
by a zephyr. The secret was disclosed in its 
falling. A boy's hatchet had been struck 
into it when it was a tender sapling. The 
wound had been grown over and hidden away 
under exuberant life, but it had never healed. 
There at the heart of the tree it stayed, a 
spot of decay, ever eating a little farther 
and deeper into the trunk, until at last the 
tree was rotted through, and fell of its own 
weight, when it seemed to be at its best. So, 
too, many lives fall when they seem to be at 
their strongest, because some sin or fault of 
youth has left its wounding and its conse- 
quent weakness at the heart. For many 
years it is hidden, and life goes on in strength. 
At last, however, its sad work is done, and 
at his prime the man falls. 



II 

Character 2?utlbtng 



Character 2?utlbtng 



€o$t of Character 

Many people have fine dreams of moral and 
spiritual beauty which never become anything 
more than dreams, because they will not work 
them out in pain, struggle, and self-restraint. 
Here is an incident from a private letter: 

"One day, lately, one of my little music 
pupils, an old-fashioned, sweet little girl 
about nine years old, was playing scales and 
octaves, when she turned to me and said, 4 Oh, 
Miss Graham, my hands are so tired !' 

"I said, 'Never mind, Norma; just try 
to play them once or twice more. The longer 
you practice them, the stronger your hands 
will grow, so that after a while you will not 
feel it at all.' 

"She turned the gentle little face wearied- 
ly to me and said: 'Miss Graham, it seems 
as if everything that strengthens hurts !' 
[15] 



CJje <$lori> of tfje Commonplace 



"I gave her something else, but I thought : 
'Yes, my dear little girl, everything that 
strengthens hurts !' " 

The child was right. It is true in music, 
it is true in all art, it is true in the making 
of character ; everything that strengthens 
hurts, costs pain and self-denial. We must 
die to live. We must crucify the flesh in 
order that we may find spiritual gains. 

Hty $ittt&$itt of His!) 3taal£ 

Some one visiting the studio of an artist ob- 
served some highly colored stones lying on 
his table. When asked why he had these 
stones always before him, the artist said it 
was to keep his eye up to tone. For the 
same reason we need to keep before us always 
high ideals of life. Otherwise our minds are 
apt to drift away from the things that are 
best. 



[16] 



Character 2?utltrmg 



^tivMttfs (torn temptation 

We put our hand into God's in the morning, 
and we ask Him to lead us through the day. 
We know not what experiences may come to 
us and we ask Him not to bring us into sore 
testings. The prayer is a request that in the 
doing of God's will for the day we may not 
be brought into places where it will be hard 
for us to be faithful. 

Some tell us that it is cowardly to offer such 
a prayer. A soldier should not shrink from 
battle, for this is the very business of his life, 
that to which he is called, that for which he en- 
listed. Only in battle can he test the qualities 
of his heroism or train himself for the service 
to which he has devoted himself. A soldier who 
has never been in an engagement must be 
brave, but no one can be sure of it — he cannot 
yet be sure of himself ; his courage has not 
been tested. An untempted virtue is only a 
possible virtue; it is not certain yet that it 
will stand the test. We must meet tempta- 
[17] 



Cfje OHorp of tfje Commonplace 



tion, and win the crowns which are only for 
the overcomers. 

Is it not cowardly, then, to plead with God 
any morning not to be brought that day into 
places where we must fight? Are we to wish 
to be soldiers who shall miss conflict, danger, 
and hardship? Is that the kind of heroism 
Christ would teach His followers? He him- 
self did not seek such a life. He shrank from 
no conflict and sought to be spared from no 
hard battle ; and would He have us plead not 
to be brought into trial? 

There is a sense in which this view is cor- 
rect. If we are following Christ fully we will 
not hesitate to go with Him into any ex- 
perience, however perilous it may be. "He 
that saveth his life shall lose it." Yet so 
much is involved in temptation, such possi- 
bilities of defeat and failure are dependent 
on the issue, that we dare not desire to enter 
into it. It is presumptuous to clamor to be led 
into the conflict. More than once Jesus warned 
His disciples to watch, that they might not 
enter into temptation. He knew how in- 
[18] 



Character Sfrutlbmg 

adequate their courage and their strength 
would prove in battle with the evil one, how 
their faith would fail in the moment of as- 
sault. We read of soldiers sick of camp, 
and chafing to be led against the enemy, but 
the Christian who is impatient to be tempted 
is very foolish. Temptation is too terrible 
an experience to be rushed into, unled by God. 

31?nt>rtrf0pet> Capacities? 

Scientists tell us of certain birds which in 
their wild state do not sing, but which have 
in their throats fine muscles, showing that if 
they had had favorable environment, they 
might have been good singers. There is no 
one who has not more life muscles than he 
has learned to use. We have capacities for 
obedience, for service, for beautiful living, 
for usefulness, which lie undeveloped in us. 
Instead of letting ourselves slacken in the 
doing of our duty, we should set ourselves 
ever a higher work and every day add a line 
[19] 



Cfje <$lovv of tfje Commonplace 



to the quality of our life and the worthiness 
of our character. 

<Hty &ztztt of a TBtSLUtitul %itt 

An inner life of love changes the aspect of all 
other lives it touches, casting the light of its 
own spirit upon them. There is a story of 
a young woman who was spending the day 
with a party of friends in the country, 
rambling through the woods and among the 
hills. Early in the morning she picked up 
a branch of sweetbrier and put it in her 
bosom. She soon forgot that it was there, 
but all day long, wherever she went, she 
smelled the spicy fragrance, wondering 
whence it came. On every woodland path 
she found the same odor, though no sweet- 
brier was growing there. On bare fields and 
rocky knolls and in deep gorges, as the party 
strolled about, the air seemed laden with the 
sweet smell. The other members of the party 
had their handfuls of all sorts of wild flowers, 
but the one fragrance that filled the air for 
[20] 



Character 2?utlbmg 



her was sweetbrier. As the party went home 
on the boat, she thought, "Some one must 
have a bouquet of sweetbrier," not dreaming 
that it was she who had it. 

Late at night, when she went to her room, 
there was the handful of sweetbrier tucked 
away in her dress, where she had put it in 
the morning and where unconsciously she 
had carried it all day. "How good it would 
be," she said to herself, as she closed her eyes, 
"if I could carry such a sweet spirit in my 
breast that every one I meet should seem 
lovely!" 

The incident suggests the secret of a beau- 
tiful Christlike life. We cannot find sweet- 
ness on every path our feet must press, in 
every place we are required to go. Some- 
times we must be among uncongenial peo- 
ple, people whose lives are not gentle, who 
are unloving in disposition, with whom it is 
not easy to live cordially in close relations. 
Sometimes we must come into circumstances 
which do not minister to our comfort, in which 
we do not find joy, gladness, encouragement. 
[21] 



^fje <$Iorp of tfje Commonplace 



The only way to be sure of making all our 
course in life a path of sweetness is to carry 
the sweetness in our own life. Then, on the 
bleakest roads, where not a flower blooms, we 
shall still walk in perfumed air, the per- 
fume carried in our own heart. 

It is thus that Christ would have us live. 
He does not promise to lead us always 
through scenes of beauty, along paths of joy ; 
what He promises is to put the beauty and 
the joy into our own lives, so that we shall 
have cheer and blessing wherever we go. St. 
Paul said that he had learned in whatsoever 
state he was therein to be content. That is, 
he had in himself, in his own heart, through 
the grace of God and the love of Christ given 
to him, the resources for contentment, and 
was not dependent upon his condition or his 
circumstances. Some people seem so happily 
constituted by nature, having such sunny 
spirits and such cheerful dispositions, that 
they cannot help being loving and sweet. How 
others who are not so gifted by nature, or 
who are in poor health, or have much to try 
[22] 



Character 2Juttbmg 



them, can keep always sweet, unaffected by 
their condition, is the problem. But they can. 
The secret is to have the love of Christ hidden 
in their hearts. That will make any life sweet. 

Ole Bttll and John Ericsson, the inventor, 
were old friends, but the musician could not 
get the inventor to listen to his violin. All 
he thought about was machines. He had no 
time for music. He did not know there was 
any music in his soul. Ole Bull then pre- 
pared a little ruse, and one day took his vio- 
lin to Ericsson, asking him to mend it — some- 
thing had gone wrong with it, he said. Then, 
to test it, after the mending, Ole Bull drew 
the bow lightly over the strings, and soon 
the most marvelous notes filled the office. 
Ericsson sat amazed, entranced, and begged 
the musician to play on. "I never knew be- 
fore that I cared for music," he said. It 
was the discovery of a power and facmty in 
his soul which, until now, had been sleeping. 
[23] 



Ctje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



We do not dream what capacities of ours 
are lying undeveloped, useless, unawakened, 
like music in a sleeping harp. 

Conqueror* t&rougf) CljrWt 

It is well that we learn the need of divine 
help in the temptations of our lives. It is not 
enough to have the forms of religion — in the 
great crises of our experience only Christ 
himself will suffice. It is said that Gains- 
borough, the artist, longed also to be a mu- 
sician. He bought musical instruments of 
many kinds and tried to play them. He once 
heard a great violinist bringing ravishing 
music from his instrument. Gainsborough 
was charmed and thrown into transports of 
admiration. He bought the violin on which 
the master had played so marvelously. He 
thought that if he only had the wonderful in- 
strument he could play, too. But he soon 
learned that the music was not in the violin, 
but was in the master who played it. 

We sometimes read how certain persons 
[24] 



Character 2?utlbtng 



have learned to overcome in temptation and 
we try to get their method, thinking we can 
overcome, too, if we use the same formula 
that they use. We read the biographies of 
eminent saints to find out how they prayed, 
how they read the Bible, thinking that we can 
get the secret of their victoriousness simply 
by adopting their order of spiritual life. 
But as the music was not in the violin, but 
in the player, so the secret of victory in 
temptation is not in any method, not even 
in the Bible, nor in any liturgy of prayer, but 
only in Christ. The power that makes us 
strong is not in any religious schedule, it is 
not in any one's methods — we must have 
Christ with us, Christ in us. 

There is a beautiful legend of Columba, 
the apostle of Christianity in North Britain. 
The saint wished to make a copy of the 
Psalms for his own use, but the one book was 
kept out of his reach, hidden in the church. 
Columba made his way secretly into the 
church, at night, and found the place where 
the volume was kept. But there was no light 
[25] 



dje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



in the building and he could not see to write. 
Yet when he opened the book and took his 
pen to write, light streamed out from his 
hand and flooded the page with radiance. 
With that shining hand he made a copy of 
the Psalter. It is only a legend, but it 
teaches that those who live always in com- 
munion with Christ have Christ in themselves 
and need falter at nothing. When we are 
serving Him, He helps us. The light of His 
life in us will make our lives shine so that 
where we go the darkness will be changed to 
day. Then we will always be conquerors in 
Him. 

Wbt 15lt$$inQ of $®tekm$$ 

Long ago, there lived a saint so good that 
the angels came down to see how a mortal 
could be so godly. He went about his daily 
work, diffusing virtue as a star diffuses light, 
as a flower emits perfume, without being 
aware of it. Two words told the story of his 
days — he gave ; he forgave. Yet these words 
[26] 



Character 2?utlbmg 



never fell from his lips; they were only ex- 
pressed by his smile, in his forbearance and 
charity. 

The angels asked God that the gift of 
miracles might be given to this good man. 
The answer was, "Yes; ask him what he 
wishes." So the angels spoke to him about 
it. Would he choose that the touch of his 
hand should heal the sick? He said, "No." 
He would rather God should do that. Would 
he have power to convert souls ? He answered, 
"No ;" that was the Holy Spirit's work. What 
then did he desire ? He said, "That God may 
give me His grace." When pressed still fur- 
ther to choose the particular power he would 
have, he replied, "That I may do a great deal 
of good without ever knowing it." Then it 
was decided that every time the saint's shadow 
should fall behind or on either side, so that he 
could not see it, it should have the power to 
cure disease, soothe pain and comfort sor- 
row. So it came to pass that, falling thus 
out of his sight, his shadow made withered 
plants grow again, and fading flowers sweet, 
[27] 



Qfyt OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



gave health to pale children and joy to un- 
happy mothers. But the saint was never 
aware of the blessings that flowed from him. 
And the people, respecting his humility, even 
forgot his name and spoke of him as The 
Holy Shadow. 

failure ag a Builtitt ot Character 

Said the president of one of our great uni- 
versities, in addressing his students, "Show 
me the young man who has had failure and 
has now won his way to success, and I will 
back him." A man who has never had any 
failure, whose course has been one of un- 
broken prosperity, has not the resources of 
strength and endurance stored away in his 
life that he has who has suffered defeats and 
then has risen again and pressed forward to 
victory. The latter has been growing man- 
hood while he was suffering earthly defeat. 
A true man never can be really defeated. He 
may fail in business, but not in character. 
[28] 



Character 2Mlbmg 



There is a little book called "Eyes and No 
Eyes," which tells of two boys who one day 
went out for a walk together. When they 
came back, a friend asked one of them what 
he had seen. He said he had seen nothing. 
He had been traveling through dust and 
along rough paths, but he had not seen any- 
thing beautiful or interesting in all the two 
hours' walk. When the other boy was asked 
the same question, he replied with much 
enthusiasm, telling of a hundred beautiful 
things he had seen in his walk — in the fields 
and in the woods — flowers and plants and bits 
of landscape, birds and squirrels and rip- 
pling streams. The two boys had walked to- 
gether over the same path, and while one had 
seen nothing to give him pleasure, the other 
came back with his mind full of lovely images 
and bright recollections. Both had looked 
on the same objects, from the same points of 
view, but they had looked through different 
lenses. 

[29] 



Cfie <$lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



l&e&nbt tot <fcmtisentit& 

We must build our lives for emergencies, if 
we would make them secure. It is not enough 
for a soldier to be trained merely for dress 
parade. It requires no courage to appear 
well on the drill-ground ; it is the battle that 
tests the soldier's bravery and discipline. A 
writer tells of watching a ship captain during 
a voyage across the Atlantic. The first days 
were balmy, without more than a pleasant 
breeze. The passengers thought the captain 
had an easy time, and some of them felt that 
it required little skill to take a great vessel 
over the sea. But the fourth day out a terrific 
storm arose, and the ship shivered and shud- 
dered under the buffeting of the waves. The 
storm continued, and in the morning the cap- 
tain was seen standing by the mainmast, 
where he had been all night, with his arms 
twisted in the ropes, watching the ship in the 
storm and directing it, so as to meet the awful 
strain in the safest way. The reserve was 
coming out in the dauntless seaman. 

[SO] 



Character 2Mttimg 



^tlp in temptation 

An English naval officer told a grateful story 
of the way he was helped and saved from dis- 
honor in his first experience in battle. He 
was a midshipman, fourteen years old. The 
volleys of the enemy's musketry so terrified 
him that he almost fainted. The officer over 
him saw his state and came close beside him, 
keeping his own face toward the enemy, and 
held the midshipman's hand, saying, in a calm, 
quiet, affectionate way, "Courage, my boy ! 
You will recover in a minute or two. I was 
just so when I went into my first battle." 
The young man said afterwards that it was 
as if an angel had come to him, and put new 
strength into him. The whole burden of his 
agony of fear was gone, and from that mo- 
ment he was as brave as the oldest of the men. 
If the officer had dealt sternly with the mid- 
shipman, he might have driven him to coward- 
ly failure. His kindly sympathy with him 
dispelled all fear, put courage into his heart 
and made him brave for battle. 

[31] 



Cfje OHorp of tfje Commonplace 



It is thus that Christ is touched with a feel- 
ing of our infirmity when, assailed by sud- 
den temptation, we quail and are afraid. He 
comes up close beside us and says, "I under- 
stand. I met a temptation just like yours, 
that tried me very sorely. I felt the same 
dread you feel. I suffered bitterly that day. 
I remember it. Be brave and strong and your 
fear will vanish and you will be victorious." 
Then He takes our hand and the thrill of 
His sympathy and of His strength comes into 
our heart, dispelling all fear. 

ptofc&utg to #tctot# 

Many young men are impatient of slow suc- 
cess. In their enthusiasm, they expect to ad- 
vance rapidly and without hindrance in their 
chosen career. The young physician is eager 
to find at once a large and remunerative prac- 
tice. The young aspirant for literary honors 
is disappointed if immediately his work is not 
accepted and his name written high in the list 
of popular writers. The young business man 
[32] 



Character 2frutlbmg 



expects to have success from the day he be- 
gins. The artist thinks that the excellence 
of his work should win fame for him the day 
his pictures are shown to the public. The 
same is true in all professions and call- 
ings. 

The fact is, however, that with very few 
exceptions, beginners in every occupation 
must be satisfied for a time with but meager 
recognition and slow results. Many young 
men who know that this is true in general 
have the feeling that their own case will be 
an exception. We like to think ourselves a 
little different from other people. We may 
as well make up our minds, however, to the 
fact that there are few exceptions to this 
rule. The only genius that counts is the 
capacity for hard work. The men who have 
achieved the greatest success in the various 
callings have had to struggle for it most in- 
tensely. 

Robert Louis Stevenson, for example, is 
thought of as a genius. We would probably 
think, from reading his masterpieces, that 
[33] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



literary work was always easy for him. But 
he has told us what it cost him to attain suc- 
cess as an author. He says : "I imagine no- 
body ever had such pains to learn a trade 
as I had ; but I slogged at it day in and day 
out, and I frankly believe (thanks to my dire 
industry) I have done more with smaller gifts 
than almost any man of letters in the world." 
He writes further : "All through my boyhood 
and youth, I was known and pointed out for 
the pattern of an idler ; and yet I was always 
busy on my own private end, which was to 
learn to write. I always kept two books in 
my pocket — one to read, one to write in. As 
I walked, my mind was busy fitting what I 
saw with appropriate words; when I sat by 
the roadside, I would either read, or a pencil 
and a penny version book would be in my 
hand, to note down the features of the scene 
or commemorate some halting stanzas. Thus 
I lived with words. What I thus wrote was 
of no ulterior use ; it was written consciously 
for practice. It was not so much that I 
wished to be an author (though I wished 
[34] 



Character 2?utltms 



that, too) as that I had vowed that I would 
learn to write." 

There are reasons why it is better that 
young men should not get on too rapidly or 
too easily at the beginning. No matter how 
gifted they may be or how well prepared, 
they are not ready at once for full responsi- 
bility. At the best, their preparation is 
theoretical, not practical. They need to learn 
by experience, and it is better that they 
should do so leisurely, without too much pres- 
sure. A young physician who should have 
the responsibilities of a large practice thrust 
upon him at once could only fail. A young 
business man, who, immediately after leaving 
college, should take sole charge of a large 
establishment, would find himself unable for 
its management. It is better that every 
young man should begin in a quiet way and 
grow up with his growing practice or busi- 
ness. 



[35] 



Cfje <JMorp of tfje Commonplace 



<Wbe &>pt on tfie C5Ia0;sf 

A man was washing a large plate glass in a 
show window. There was one soiled spot on 
the glass which defied all his efforts to cleanse 
it. After long and hard rubbing at it, with 
soap and water, the spot still remained, and 
then the man discovered that the spot was on 
the inside of the glass. There are many peo- 
ple who are trying to cleanse their lives from 
stains by washing the outside. They cut off 
evil habits and cultivate the moralities, so 
that their conduct and character shall appear 
white. Still they find spots and flaws which 
they cannot remove. The trouble is within. 
Their hearts are not clean, and God desires 
truth in the inward parts. 

Conquering f$e %ohz of St?one# 

There is a story of a merchant who was de- 
voted to high purposes in life, who was de- 
termined to be a man free from bondage to 
the lower things. One day a ship of his that 
[36] 



Character SMIbtng 



was coming homeward was delayed. He be- 
came anxious, and the next day was yet more 
troubled, and the third day still more. Then 
he came to himself, awaking to his true con- 
dition of bondage to earthly things, and said, 
"Is it possible that I have come to love money 
for itself, and not for its nobler uses?" Tak- 
ing the value of the ship and its cargo, he 
gave it to charities, not because he wished 
to be rid of the money, but because only thus 
could he get the conquest over himself, hold- 
ing his love of money under his feet. 

Many people are lost by clinging to their 
past. They have allowed it to be unworthy. 
When Cardinal Mazarin was near to death, it 
is said a courtier in his palace saw him walk- 
ing about the great halls of his palace, gaz- 
ing at the magnificent pictures, the statuary, 
and works of art. "Must I leave it all? 
Must I leave it all?" he was heard to murmur 
despairingly. These were his treasures, the 
[37] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



accumulation of a long life of wealth and 
power. These were the things he had lived 
for, and they were things he could not take 
with him. He must leave them to the moth 
and rust. We must beware of our earthly 
entanglements. We should forget the things 
of the past by having our hearts filled with 
the glory of things to come. 

A moment after we have done a wrong thing 
we may bitterly repent it. We may be will- 
ing to give all we have in the world to undo 
it, to make it as though it never had been. 
But in vain. A deed done takes its place in 
the universe as a fact, and never can be re- 
called. "Don't write there, sir!" said a boy 
to a young man in the waiting-room of a rail- 
way station, as he saw him take off his ring 
and begin with a diamond to scratch some 
words on the mirror. "Don't write there, 
sir!" "Why not?" asked the young man. 
"Because you can't rub it out." We should 
[38 ] 



Character 2?utlbtns 



be sure before we speak a word or do an act, 
that we shall be willing to have it stand for- 
ever. 

KeUston toiti&out JLitt 

There is a story of a sculptor who had 
chiseled in marble a statue of St. George and 
set it before a church in Florence. Michael 
Angelo was asked to see it. He stood before 
the marble and was amazed at the success of 
the young artist. Every feature was perfect. 
The brow was massive. Intelligence beamed 
from the eyes. One foot was in the act of 
moving as if to step forward. Gazing at the 
splendid marble figure, Angelo said, "Now, 
march!" No higher compliment could the 
great artist have paid to St. George in mar- 
ble. Yet there was no response. The statue 
was perfect in all the form of life, but there 
was no life in it. It could not march. It is 
possible for us to have all the semblance of 
life in our religious profession, in our ortho- 
doxy of belief, in our morality, in our Chris- 
[39] 



Cfje 05lorp of tfje Commonplace 



tian achievements, in our conduct, in our de- 
votion to the principles of right and truth, 
and yet not have life in us. Life is the great 
final blessing we should seek. 

Some boys had played a game. One little fel- 
low came home gloomy and cast down. His 
side had lost. But that was not the cause of 
his dejection. 

"Mother," he said, "God was on the side 
of the bad boys to-day, and they won. You 
see, we fellows thought we would try awfully 
hard and not get mad or cheat or say bad 
words, and not one fellow did. But the other 
side did. They swore and got cross and 
cheated, and they won. God was on their 
side, and it wasn't fair." 

The mother could not comfort her boy. 
The father came in presently, and the mother 
drew him aside and quietly told him of the 
state of things. Presently the father said: 
[40] 



Character 2?utlbmg 



"Well, my boy, I hear you won out to- 
day." 

"Well," in a very solemn voice, "you heard 
wrong, because we were beaten." 

"But I heard there were two games. I 
heard that you lost the match, but won the 
big, important thing — you conquered your- 
selves. You didn't beat the other fellows, but 
you conquered your tempers and bad lan- 
guage. Congratulations, my boy ; I am prou3 
of you." 

The boy's face began to change. "Why, 
that is so, father," he said happily. "I didn't 
think of it in that way. God was on our side, 
after all, wasn't He?" 

lueping flflp tfje &t anli at* 

Some one says that the sentence, "That will 
do," has done more harm than any other sen- 
tence in the English language. It indicates 
the acceptance of a standard below the high- 
est. A person has done something which is 
not his best. He recognizes the fact ; but he 
[41] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



is too indolent to do it over again, or he is 
impatient to get the matter off his hands, 
and decides to let it go as it is. "That will 
do," is a confession of unworthiness in what 
is done, and of indolence in the person who 
does it. He knows he could do better, but 
decides to let it pass. 

Many catastrophes come in later years 
from doing imperfect or careless work in 
youth. When digging for the foundation of 
a great building, the workmen came upon a 
piece of old wall. "That will do," they said ; 
and they left it in the new wall, building 
around it. The great structure went up, 
and was filled with business. One day there 
was a crash. The fragment of old wall had 
given way, and the whole building fell in ruin. 

Continually young people are leaving in 
the foundation walls of their character a 
fault, a wrong habit, a weakness, a flaw. It 
would be hard to dig it out. It is easier 
just to build over it and around it, and 
so they let it stay. "That will do," they 
say apologetically. Then afterwards, in 
[42] 



Character Shutting 



some great stress or strain, the character 
fails and falls into ruins ; it is seen then that 
that careless piece of foundation-building was 
the cause of it all. 

"M jfoot jSDffenti <&%tt" 

A rabbit was caught by its foot in a hunter's 
steel trap. The little creature was wise 
enough to know that unless it escaped from 
the snare it would soon lose its life. So it 
gnawed off its leg with its own teeth, and, 
leaving its foot in the trap, fled away, 
maimed, to liberty. It saved its life at the 
cost of its ensnared member. He who has 
become entangled in some evil association, 
hearing the call of Christ, should arise and 
follow Him straightway, though he must leave 
behind a right hand or a right foot. 

Patience un&et WLnmezittti €iititi$m 

An interesting story of Michael Angelo is 
related, which illustrates the wise way of 
[43] 



Cfje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



treating even ignorant, officious, and im- 
pertinent criticism. When the artist's great 
statue of David was placed for the first time 
in the Plaza in Florence, all the people were 
hushed in wonder before its noble majesty — 
all except Soderinni. This man looked at the 
statue from different points of view with a 
wise, critical air, and then suggested that 
the nose was a little too long. The great 
sculptor listened quietly to the suggestion, 
and taking his chisel and mallet, he set a 
ladder against the statue, in order to reach 
the face, and climbed up, carrying a little 
marble dust in his hand. Then he seemed 
to be working carefully upon the objectionable 
feature, as if changing it to suit his critic's 
taste, letting the marble dust fall as he 
wrought. When he came down again Sode- 
rinni again looked at the figure, now from 
this point of view and then from that, at last 
expressing entire approval. His suggestion 
had been accepted, as he supposed, and he 
was satisfied. 

The story furnishes a good illustration of 
[ 44 ] 



Character 2frutlbmg 



a great deal of fault-finding to which we 
must listen. It is unintelligent and valueless. 
But it cannot be restrained. There is no sub- 
ject under Heaven on which these wise peo- 
ple do not claim to have a right to express 
an opinion, and there is no work so perfect 
that they cannot point out where it is faulty 
and might be improved. They are awed by 
no greatness. Such criticisms are worthy 
only of contempt, and such critics do not de- 
serve courteous attention. But it is better 
that we treat them with patience. It helps 
at least in our own self -discipline, and it is 
the nobler way. 

Courage to %ibe Sofilg 

Some of us are dimly aware of the great pos- 
sibilities in us, yet lack the energy and the 
earnestness necessary to release our impris- 
oned faculties and give them wing. One of 
the most wonderful stories of the conquest 
of difficulty is that of Helen Keller. She was 
blind, she was deaf, she could not speak. Her 
[45] 



Cfje <01orp of tfje Commonplace 

soul was hidden away in an impenetrable 
darkness. Yet she has overcome all these 
seemingly invincible obstacles and barriers 
and now stands in the ranks of intelligence 
and scholarship. We have a glimpse of what 
goes on in her brave soul in such words as 
these : "Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isola- 
tion enfolds me like a cold mist as I sit alone 
at life's shut gate. Beyond, there is life and 
music and sweet companionship ; but I may 
not enter. Fate, silent, pitiless, bars the 
way. Fain would I question His imperious 
decree ; for my heart is still undisciplined and 
passionate ; but my tongue will not utter the 
bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and 
they fall back into my heart like unshed tears. 
Silence sits immense on my soul. Then comes 
hope with a smile and whispers, 'There is joy 
in self-forgetfulness.' So I try to make the 
light in others' eyes my sun, the music in 
others' ears my symphony, the smile on 
others' lips my happiness." 

Helen Keller, in one little sentence that she 
has written, discloses the secret of all that she 
[46] 



Character 2£utlbtng 



has achieved and attained. This resolve, she 
herself says, has been the keynote of her life. 
"I resolved to regard as mere impertinences 
of fate the handicaps which were placed about 
my life almost at the beginning. I resolved 
that they should not dwarf my soul, but, 
rather, should be made to blossom, like 
Aaron's rod that budded." Some of us, with 
no such hindrances, with no such walls and 
barriers imprisoning our being, with almost 
nothing in the way of the full development 
of our powers, with everything favorable 
thereto, have scarcely found our souls. We 
have eyes, but we see not the glory of God 
about us and above us. We have ears, but 
we hear not the music of divine love which 
sings all round us. It may not always be 
easy for us to learn to know the blessed 
things of God which fill all the world. But 
if we had half the eagerness that Helen Kel- 
ler has shown in overcoming hindrance, half 
the energy, think how far we would be ad- 
vanced to-day ! We would then regard as 
mere impertinences of fate the handicaps 
[47] 



Cfje <£lorp of tfje Commonplace 



which are about us, making it hard for us to 
reach out to find the best things of life. We 
would not allow our souls to be dwarfed by 
any hindrances ; but would struggle on until 
we are free from all shackles and restraints 
and until we have grown into the full beauty 
of Christ. 

25*£onti t^t l&eacl) of 3ng»tilt 

Once in Wellesley College a student was com- 
plaining bitterly to the president of a certain 
rudeness that had been shown to her. The 
president said, "Why not be superior to these 
things, and let them go unregarded?" "Miss 
Freeman," retorted the student, "I wonder 
how you would like to be insulted." Miss Free- 
man drew herself up with fine dignity and 
said, "Miss S., there is no one living who 
could insult me." 

Sometimes men fail in their business ventures 
or in their professions. They give their best 
[ 48 ] 



Character 2?utlbmg 



strength and their most strenuous efforts to 
seme work, and it does not succeed. The work 
fails, but the men need not fail. It is a 
great thing to meet misfortune victoriously, 
coming out of it with life unhurt, with new 
strength and courage for another effort. A 
distinguished jurist lost an important case 
in the courts. He showed no feeling of dis- 
couragement, however, and a friend asked 
him how he could take his disappointment so 
calmly. "When it is over," said the great 
lawyer, "I have no more to do with it. If I 
kept thinking of my defeats, I feel that I 
should go mad. But I will not brood over 
them. When one case is done, I drop it, 
whatever the result may be, and go on to 
the next." 

It is a fine thing to see a boy, when his 
competitor has won the game, reach out his 
hand to him in manly congratulation. He 
has lost the game, but he has won in nobility. 
The only real defeat is when a man shows an 
unmanly spirit and yields to depression after 
losing in business, or pouts and sulks and acts 
[49] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 

like a baby when he has failed to get the prize 
he wanted. 

JLooMnq into ttje 9?tttot 

A young woman writes that on three suc- 
cessive Sundays she heard three different 
preachers, and that each one of them spoke 
very earnestly on the importance of self-con- 
trol. This persistent recurrence of the same 
lesson had set her to thinking of the subject, 
and she wrote with some alarm regarding her 
own lack of self-mastery. She saw that she 
had been allowing herself to fall into certain 
habits which are very unseemly, which are 
marring the sweetness of her disposition and 
making her disagreeable. She has been liv- 
ing in a boarding-house, and she began to see 
that she had been behaving herself in a very 
selfish way toward her hostess. She had per- 
mitted herself to become exacting and critical, 
finding fault with everything. She had been 
acting like a peevish, fretful child, losing her 
[50] 



Character 2?utlbmg 



temper and giving way to her feelings in a 
most unseemly fashion. 

It does not take long for one to get a repu- 
tation as a discontented person, as unreason- 
able, as hard to get along with, as disagree- 
able, or as a gossip, or a meddler in other 
people's matters. We need to keep it in our 
prayers continually that we may have the gift 
to see ourselves as others see us. It would 
be a good thing if we all were to read the 
thirteenth of First Corinthians at least once 
a week all through our life. It would be 
like looking into a mirror which would ex- 
pose the unseemly things in our behavior, 
that we might cure them. 



[51] 



m 

(Zfrototng like Cfjrtst 



One of Hawthorne's short stories tells of the 
Great Stone Face. The rocks on a mountain 
were so grouped that, looked at from a certain 
point, there was the appearance of a human 
face. There was a tradition among the peo- 
ple that some day there would come to the 
valley a man with the same gracious features 
which this stone face bore, a man who would 
have the noble character and personality 
represented by these features. 

A boy, Ernest, listened one evening to this 
tradition from his mother's lips, and the tra- 
dition sank into the boy's heart and stayed 
there. He would look up at the noble stone 
face and wonder when the man would come 
who should fulfill the old prophecy. Three 
times a man came who the people thought 
might be the man of the stone face, but each 
[55] 



'Cfje <®forp of tfje Commonplace 



time they were disappointed. Through days 
and years, while the boy grew to manhood 
and the man into old age, he continued to look 
at the stone face, pondering its noble beauty 
and unconsciously growing himself all the 
while into the beauty which his soul had 
idealized in that image on the mountain. He 
grew into wisdom and strength, and became 
a friend of the people and their teacher. By 
and by a poet, listening one day to Ernest's 
words as he spoke to his neighbors, discovered 
the resemblance and exclaimed, "Why, Ernest 
himself is like the great stone face !" Looking 
at that benign face all the years, pondering 
its features, he had been transformed into 
its image. 

So those who look intently at the face of 
Christ, entering into the spirit of His life, 
walking in daily fellowship with Him, bear- 
ing His cross, loving Him and doing His will, 
take His image upon their own lives, grow like 
Him, until neighbors and friends begin to see 
the resemblance and say, "Why, they are like 
the blessed face of Jesus Christ !" 

[56] 



OSrotomg like Cfjrfet 



One tells of entering a great, crowded church 
one Sunday morning, while the congregation 
was singing. A thousand voices joined in the 
psalm, but it seemed as if no two of the men 
were in accord. But as the visitor listened, 
he heard one voice which was singing quietly, 
clearly, distinctly, and sweetly, amid all the 
confused discords. Soon he noticed that the 
other voices, one by one, were coming into 
unison with this one. Before the last verse 
was reached the whole congregation was sing- 
ing in perfect harmony. The mass of dis- 
cordant voices had been dominated by the one 
true voice and all had been lifted up by it 
into its own sweet, clear tone. 

In some such way does the will of God be- 
gin its work in a human heart. Its voice is 
clear and true and unfaltering. It sings alone, 
however, in a chorus of harsh, discordant 
voices. Its work is to bring all these disso- 
nances into harmony, to train all these voices 
of willfulness and waywardness, all these 
[57] 



Cfje 45lorp of tfje Commonplace 



unmusical feelings and impulses and desires, 
into quiet unison with itself. When we say 
that certain persons are growing in grace we 
mean that the will of God is slowly and grad- 
ually bringing their undisciplined powers and 
tendencies into harmony. The music is grow- 
ing sweeter. The lessons of patience, meek- 
ness, joy, peace, gentleness, thoughtfulness, 
kindness, charity, are being a little better 
learned each day. 

A plain-spoken woman said to her daughter, 
who had been rude to a servant, "My dear, if 
you haven't enough kindness in you to go 
round, you must save it up for those you con- 
sider beneath you. Your superiors can do 
very well without it, but I insist that you 
shall be kind to those who need it most." 

The first thing the love of Christ does is 
to sweeten all the life, the disposition, the 
spirit, the temper, the manners. One writes 
[58] 



afrotomg like Cfjrtet 

of a sweetbrier life. A little group of girls 
were together one rainy afternoon. One of 
them opened the door for a moment, and a 
wave of wet, green, growing things poured 
into the room. The girl at the door turned 
and said to the others, "Do you smell the 
sweetbrier down by the gate? It is always 
fragrant, but never so fragrant as in the 
rain." One of the girls said impulsively that 
this reminded her of her aunt. When asked to 
explain, she said, "Why, you see, there are 
ever so many roses that are fragrant — the 
roses themselves, I mean — but the sweetbrier 
is the only one whose leaves also are fra- 
grant. That is why it makes me think of my 
aunt, because everything about her, every- 
thing she does, not the large things only, but 
all the common, every-day things — the leaves 
as well as the blossoms — have something beau- 
tiful in them. There is something in her 
spirit, a gentleness, a thoughtfulness, a kind- 
liness, a graciousness, that goes out in every- 
thing she does, in every word she speaks, in 
every influence that breathes from her life." 
[59] 



Cfje <J5lorp of tfje Commonplace 



A pastor was commending religion to a boy, 
expressing the hope that he would give his 
heart to God in his youth. "Religion is a con- 
tinual joy," he said. "Look at your sister, 
Sarah. How much that dear girl enjoys her 
religion !" "Yes," drawled the boy, with frank 
candor, "Sadie may enjoy her religion, but 
nobody else in the house enjoys it." The 
boy's judgment may have been harsh and un- 
just, but there are professing Christians of 
whom it is true that their families do not en- 
joy their religion. It is not sweet. It is 
not a comfort to people. It is critical, rasp- 
ing, censorious, exacting. It was a serious 
condemnation of this girl's religion that her 
family did not enjoy it. 

A close observer has said, "Many a sis- 
ter spoils her testimony in the church by 
her tongue in the kitchen." Another has 
said, "There are people who lead us Heaven- 
ward, but stick pins in us all the way." In 
a conversation overheard on a railway train, 
[60] 



<£5rotomg like atfjrfet 



one reports catching this fragment of talk: 
"Yes, I suppose she's good — I know she is. 
But she isn't pleasant to live with." A good- 
ness that isn't pleasant to live with is not 
the kind that is most needed in this world. 
We may do all our duties faithfully, con- 
scientiously, bearing our share of the bur- 
dens and cares, and yet, if we are not pleas- 
ant to live with, we fail in the most essential 
quality of love. An unlovely spirit, frowns 
and chilling looks, sharp, impatient words, 
overbalance the eager, painstaking service 
that does so much to help in practical ways. 
What the person is mars the value of what 
he does. 

& Step at a tlimt 

The law of divine guidance is, step by step. 
One who carries a lantern on a country road 
at night sees only one step before him. If he 
takes that step, however, he carries his lan- 
tern forward and this makes another step 
plain. At length he reaches his destination 
[61 ] 



Cfje O&orp of tfje Commonplace 



without once stepping into the darkness. The 
whole way has been made light for him, 
though only a step at a time. This is the 
usual method of God's guidance. The Bible 
is represented as a lamp unto the feet. It is 
a lamp, or lantern — not a blazing sun, not 
even a lighthouse, but a plain, common lan- 
tern, which one can carry about in his hand. 
It is a lamp unto the feet, not throwing its 
beams afar, not illumining a whole hemi- 
sphere, but shining only on the bit of road 
on which the pilgrim's feet are walking. 

An old writer tells of dreaming that a strange 
thing happened to his Bible. Every word in 
it that referred to Christ had faded from the 
pages. He turned to the New Testament to 
find the Gospels, and found only blank paper. 
He looked for the prophecies about the 
Messiah, which he used to read, and they 
had all been blotted out. He recalled sweet 
promises which he used to lean on with de- 
[62] 



aSrotomg Itfee Cfjrtst 



light, but not one of them could be found. The 
name of Christ had faded from every place 
where once it had been. What would it mean 
to us to find ourselves some day without 
Christ, to find that we had lost Him, to look 
for Him in some great need and find that 
we do not have Him any more? 

There is a striking little story by Henry 
van Dyke, called "The Lost Word." It is 
a story of one of the early centuries. Hermas 
had become a Christian. He belonged to a 
wealthy and distinguished pagan family. His 
father disinherited him and drove him from 
his home when he accepted the new faith. 
From being one of the richest young men in 
Antioch he was now one of the poorest. In 
the Grove of Daphne one day he was sitting 
in sadness by a gushing spring, when there 
came to him a priest of Apollo, a pagan phi- 
losopher, who, seeing his unhappy mood, be- 
gan to talk with him. In the end the old man 
had made this compact with Hermas. He 
assured him of wealth, of favor, of success, 
and Hermas was to give him only one word 
[63] 



Cfje OSIorp of tfje Commonplace 



— he was to part forever with the name of 
Him he had learned to worship. "Let me 
take that word and all that belongs to it en- 
tirely out of your life, so that you shall never 
need to hear it or speak it again. I promise 
you everything," said the old man, "and this 
is all I ask in return. Do you consent?" 
"Yes, I consent," said Hernias. So he lost 
the word, the Blessed Name. 

He had sold it. It was not his any more. 
He went back to Antioch, to his old home. 
There he found his father dying. For hours 
he had been calling for his son. The old man 
received him eagerly, said he had forgiven 
him, and asked his son for his forgiveness. 
He then asked Hermas to tell him the secret 
of the Christian faith which he had chosen. 
"You found something that made you will- 
ing to give up life for it. What was it you 
found?" The father was dying and his pagan 
belief gave him no comfort. He wanted now 
to know the Christian's secret. Hermas be- 
gan to tell his father the secret of his faith. 
"Father," he said, "you must believe with all 
[64] 



oSrotomg Kfee Cfjriat 



jour heart and soul and strength in" — where 
was the word? What was the name? What 
had become of it? He groped in darkness 
but he could not find it. There was a lonely 
soul, crying out for the Name, but Hermas 
could not tell even his own dying father what 
it was. The word was lost. 

Love came into his life and happiness was 
heaped on happiness. A child was born to 
him. But in all the wondrous joy something 
was wanting. Both he and his wife confessed 
it. They sought a dismantled shrine in the 
garden and Hermas sought to pour out his 
heart. "For all good gifts," he said, "for 
love, for life, we praise, we bless, we thank — " 
But he could not find the word. The Name 
was beyond his reach. There was no one to 
thank. He had lost God. 

The boy grew into wondrous beauty. One 
day Hermas was victorious in the chariot 
races. Then he took his boy in the chariot 
and drove again around the ring to show him 
to the people. The tumult frightened the 
horses and they ran away. The child was 
[65] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



tossed off, and when his father turned to look 
for him, he was lying like a broken flower 
in the sand. His distress was great. Days 
passed. "Is there nothing that we can do?" 
said the mother. "Is there no one to pity 
us ? Let us pray for his life." Hermas sank 
on his knees beside his wife. "Out of the 
depths," he began — "Out of the depths we 
call for pity. The light of our eyes is fading. 
Spare the child's life, thou merciful — " But 
there was only a deathly blank. He could 
not find the Name. The word he wanted was 
lost. 

This story has become true in actual life 
thousands of times. People have given up 
the name of Christ, sold it for money, or 
pleasure, or power, or sin. Then when times 
of need came, and they turned to find help, 
there was only blankness. In a home there 
is some great distress. One is nigh unto 
death, and friends want to pray for him. But 
they cannot pray. In childhood they were 
taught the words, "Our Father," but long 
since they have lost the holy Name, and now, 
[66] 



<®rotouta Itfee Cfjrtst 



when they would give worlds to go to God 
they cannot find the way. 

In all the world there is no sadness so deep 
as the sadness of one who has lost Christ and 
then in some great need is trying to find Him. 
There is no ear to hear. It is a fearful thing 
to give up Christ, to lose Him. "Without 
Me ye can do nothing." 

C&ttet JLibtfy in 

In the later days of Grecian art, a prize was 
offered for the best statue of one of the 
goddesses. A youth in the country who loved 
this goddess set to work to compete for the 
prize. But he lacked the artist's gift and 
experience, and his statue was crude and 
clumsy, far from beautiful. It seemed to have 
no chance at all for winning the prize. But 
the goddess, so the heathen legend runs, 
knowing of the sincere devotion of this youth 
to her and his love for her, when the time 
came for the display of the statues in the 
competition, entered herself into the crude 
[67] 



Cfje d^lovv of tfje Commonplace 



stone, and at once it glowed with divine 
beauty, by far the most beautiful of all the 
statues, winning the prize. 

We are called to show the world the beauty 
of Christ, to reproduce the glory of His life, 
not in cold marble, but in Christian character, 
in Christian spirit, in Christian service. In 
our weakness and faultiness it may seem to 
us that we cannot do anything, that our life 
and work are unworthy of the holy name we 
bear. Our best seems most unlovely, crude, 
faulty, imperfect ; but if we truly love Christ, 
if we truly believe on Him, and if at His com- 
mand we strive to do that which seems im- 
possible, Christ himself, knowing our love, 
and seeing our striving, will enter into our 
life and fill it with Himself. Then our poor 
efforts will become radiant and divine in their 
beauty. 

A friend once said to Lord Tennyson, "Tell 
me what Jesus Christ is to you, personally." 
[68] 



aSrotomg like Cfjrfet 



They were walking in the garden, and close 
by was a rosebush full of wonderful roses. 
Pointing to this miracle of nature, Tennyson 
answered, "What the sun is to this rosebush, 
Jesus Christ is to me." The sun had wooed 
out from the bare, briery bush of the spring 
days all that marvelous beauty of roses. And 
whatever was lovely, winsome, and divine in 
the life of the great poet, he meant to say, 
had been wooed out of his natural self by the 
warmth of Christ's love. 

3fn GDzbtt to &te Cljttet 

When Leonardo da Vinci's great picture, the 
"Last Supper," was finished, it is said there 
was much discussion among the monks as to 
which detail was the best. One suggested this 
and another that. At length they all agreed 
that the best feature was the painting of the 
table-cloth with its fine drawing and rich 
coloring. The artist was grieved when he 
heard what they said. It had been his wish 
[69] 



Cfje <£lor|> of tfje Commonplace 



to make the face of the Master so far the most 
winsome feature that it would instantly and 
overpoweringly attract every one's eye to 
itself. But now his friends praised the table- 
cloth and said nothing of the Master's face. 
Taking his brush, he blotted from the canvas 
every thread of the cloth, that the blessed face 
alone might win the adoration of all be- 
holders. Let it be so with us. Whatever 
draws any eye or heart away from Christ, 
let us blot out. "Have this mind in you 
which was also in Christ Jesus." 

Mr. Morxey, in his Life of Gladstone, re- 
ferring to certain qualities in Gladstone's 
character and conduct which were inspired 
by his beliefs and convictions as a Christian, 
says, in effect: "There was no worldly wisdom 
in these lines of action," and adds: "But, 
then, what are people Christians for?" They 
belong to Christ. They wear Christ's name. 
[70] 



OSrotomg Itfee Cfjrfet 



They live in a code of heavenly laws. If 
they are not different from other people they 
are falling below the glory of their calling. 
People think meekness and patience in endur- 
ing wrong marks of weakness. No ; they are 
marks of strength. That is what Christians 
are for. 

Cfjttet in jFntn&sf 

There are some Christians who, by reason of 
their beautiful life, sweet spirit, and noble 
faithfulness, make us instinctively think of 
Christ. One said of another: "You have 
only to shake hands with that man to feel that 
he is a follower of Christ." A little child, 
when asked if he knew about Jesus, said: 
"Yes, He lives in our street." There was 
some one the child knew who was so beautiful 
in spirit, so gentle, so kind, that he visioned 
for the child's thought of Christ. You know 
such a person, in whose presence you could 
not do anything false or mean or wrong. 
[71] 



Cfje <$lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



1&ttUg (or Cfjttettan Efting 

We are at much pains to please the honored 
and beloved friend who stays with us a day 
or a week. We give him the best room. We 
shape all our household life, our engage- 
ments, our occupations, our hours, our meals, 
our pleasures, our conversation, to make him 
happy. We try to be at our best in our be- 
havior. We seek to make the home atmos- 
phere congenial to him. What kind of home 
should we make ours when Christ, the Son of 
God, is our guest? Love should abound. Jesus 
was glad to be guest in the home of Martha 
and Mary. If there be any nagging, wrang- 
ling, contention, strife, unrest in that home, 
would He have continued to come and to stay 
there? The Christian's home should be hap- 
pier, brighter, heavenlier, than the one next 
door where Christ is not a guest. 

The same test should be applied to busi- 
ness life. Is the Christian's store a different 
kind of store from that of his neighbor, who 
is not a Christian ? Is the business done in a 
[72] 



OBrotoms lite Cfjrust 



different way, a way that distinctly char- 
acterizes it as ruled by a heavenly spirit ? Are 
different methods employed? Are people who 
buy goods any surer of being honestly dealt 
with in Christian-man's store, than they are 
in the store of Mr. Worldly -man, on the other 
side of the street? Do they receive more 
courteous treatment? Is there a higher 
standard of business honesty in it? 

Is the Christian carpenter a better carpen- 
ter, and does he do more skillful and more 
conscientious work than the carpenter over 
the way who does not follow Christ? Is the 
Christian builder a better builder than the 
one who is not a Christian? Does he put 
more honest work into his houses, better ma- 
terials, better masonry, better carpentering, 
better plumbing, better roofing, than the 
other man does? "What do ye Christians 
more than others?" 

A successful business man was asked for the 
primary rule of Christian business life. He 
answered, "To think of the other man." He 
said, in explanation: "I can afford to lose 
[73] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



in a transaction, but I cannot afford to have 
my customer lose. I may be the victim of mis- 
representation, but I must never allow him 
to suffer from false statements or from any 
concealed defects in the goods I sell him. He 
must learn to trust me implicitly and to know 
that I would a hundred times rather suffer 
myself than to cause or allow him to suffer." 

This is the only wise business policy, as 
well as the only right thing to do. A busi- 
ness man cannot afford to take advantage of 
his customer. It is suicidal for him to do so. 
He may pocket a little more money once or 
twice, but he has lost his reputation, which is 
his best asset. While this is good business, 
it is also good religion. We must think of 
the other man's interest as well as our own, 
before our own. How is it in fact among 
Christian people? What do Christian busi- 
ness men do more than those who are not 
Christians? Does the world see any differ- 
ence ? 

The same rule should apply in our personal 
relations with others. Is there anything in 
[74] 



4£rotomg like Cfjrfet 



our life and character and conduct that dis- 
tinguishes us from those with whom we as- 
sociate who are not Christians? Are we bet- 
ter than they are? Are we more patient? 
Are we more thoughtful and unselfish? Are 
we kinder and more helpful as neighbors? 
A Christian woman said: "The rule of con- 
duct that has done most for me in my life 
I found the other day in a newspaper. It is 
this: 'Make yourself good, and make other 
people happy.' " 

Soon after Judson reached Burma, he met 
one day a native woman. He could not 
speak a word of the language, but touch- 
ing the woman's hand he looked up and 
pointed upward. She went home and told 
her friends that she had met an angel. His 
very face seemed transfigured. Now and 
then a saintly face is seen that seems to "have 
almost a supernatural glow in it, as if a holy 
fire burned back of it. Every soul writes its 
[75 ] 



Cfje dSiovy of ttje Commonplace 



story more or less distinctly on the face, which 
is the index of the inner life. Discontent soon 
shows its fevered spirit in fretted features. 
Anger soon reveals its unlovableness in the 
sinister lines it stamps on the brow. Unholy 
passion in time blots the delicate marks of 
purity and innocence from the countenance 
and leaves instead the tarnished marrings 
wrought by its own vileness. There is no 
cherished sin which does not work up out of 
the heart, however deeply it is hidden there, 
and reveal itself in some way in the face. Men 
think their unhallowed secret sin is not known, 
but ofttimes they are mistaken; the thing 
they suppose hidden from all eyes but their 
own, all eyes see in telltale signs which no 
art can obscure. 

In like manner, good in the heart works its 
way up into the face, and prints its own 
beauty there. Love in the life softens the 
features and gives them a warmth like the 
gentle beauty of spring flowers. Peace in 
the heart soon gives a quiet calm to the 
countenance. Many a perturbed, restless face 
[76] 



ofrotomg Itfec Cfjrfet 



grows placid and reposeful under the in- 
fluence of peace. Purity in the soul shows 
itself in the upward look and the thoughtful 
reverence which tells of communion with 
God. Benevolence writes its autograph on 
brow and cheek. Thus in a sense even the 
physical features share in the transfigura- 
tion of the life of faith and holiness. 

Mf)y i?er %iit toag IStmtiiwl 

Professor Drummond tells of a young girl 
who became wondrously beautiful in her life, 
growing into a rare Christlikeness. Her 
friends wondered what the secret could be. 
She wore upon her breast a little locket 
which she always kept closed, refusing to al- 
low any one to see within it. Once, however, 
when she was very ill, a friend was permitted 
to open it, and found there only a little piece 
of paper, bearing the words, "Whom not hav- 
ing seen I love." This told the whole story. 
Her love for the unseen Christ was the secret 
[77] 



Cfje <£lorp of tfje Commonplace 



of that beautiful life which had so impressed 
itself upon her friends. 

jgebet oft 2Dut£ 

A little girl, applying for membership in a 
church, when asked by the pastor what she 
thought it would be for her to be a Christian, 
replied: "I suppose it will be to do what 
Jesus would do, and to behave as Jesus would 
behave, if he were a little girl and lived at our 
house." There could be no better definition of 
a consecrated life. We are always to ask, 
"What would Jesus do?" and then try to do 
the same. A Christian is always a Christian, 
wherever he may go. He is never off duty. 
He always represents Christ. He must always 
strive to be what Jesus would be and do what 
Jesus would do in his place. 

The things that hurt and scar our lives are 
resentment, unforgiveness, bitter feeling, de- 
[ 78 ] 



<$rototng Itfee Cfjrtet 



sire for revenge. Men may beat us until 
our bones are broken, but if love fails not in 
our hearts meanwhile, we have come through 
the experience unharmed, with no marks of 
injury upon us. One writing of a friend 
who was dreadfully hurt in a runaway acci- 
dent says that the woman will be probably 
scarred for life, and then goes on to speak of 
the wondrous patience in her sufferings and 
of the peace of God that failed not in her 
heart for a moment. The world may hurt 
our bodies, but if we suffer as Christ suffered 
there will be no trace of scarring or wound- 
ing in our inner life. 

We may learn from our Master how to en- 
dure wrong so as not to be hurt by it. "When 
He suffered, He threatened not; but com- 
mitted Himself to Him that judgeth right- 
eously." He did not take the righting of His 
wrongs into His own hands. He had power 
and could have summoned legions of angels to 
fight for Him, but He did not lift a finger in 
His own defence. When Pilate spoke to Jesus 
of his power to crucify or release Him, Jesus 
[79] 



^fje 05lorp of tfje Commonplace 



said, "Thou wouldst have no power against 
me, except it were given thee from above." 
God could build a wall of granite about us, 
if He would, so that no enemy can touch us. 
He could shield us so that no power on earth 
can do us any hurt. He could deliver us from 
every enemy. We should remember when we 
are suffering injury or injustice at the hands 
of others, that God could have prevented it. 
He could have held back the hand that it 
should not touch us. He could have ordered 
that no harm should be done to us, that we 
should suffer no injury. 

This wrong that you are suffering, what- 
ever it is, is therefore from God, something 
He permits to come to you. It is not an acci- 
dent, a lawless occurrence, something that has 
broken away from the divine control, some- 
thing that God could not prevent breaking 
into your life. In nature not a drop of water 
in the wildest waves of the sea ever gets away 
from the leash of the law. Law reigns every- 
where, in things small and great. 



[80] 



OSrotomg like Cfjrfet 



<Wbt Jface of tfj* CSttgttan 

A missionary in Tokyo tells of a Japanese 
woman who came to speak about having her 
daughter received into the school for girls 
which the teacher was conducting. She asked 
if only beautiful girls were admitted. "No," 
was the reply; "we take any girl who desires 
to come." "But," continued the woman, "all 
your girls that I have seen are very beau- 
tiful." The teacher replied, "We tell them of 
Christ, and seek to have them take Him into 
their hearts, and this makes their faces 
lovely." The woman answered, "Well, I do 
not want my daughter to become a Christian, 
but I am going to send her to your school to 
get that look in her face." 

Christ is the sweetener ana beautifier of the 
lives and the very face of those who become 
his friends. He gives them peace, and peace 
brightens and transforms their features. He 
teaches them love, and love makes them beau- 
tiful. 



[81] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



We may be treated unjustly by one to whom 
we have been a faithful friend for years. Will 
that absolve us from being kind any longer 
to the ungrateful person ? No ; Christian love 
is not to be affected by any treatment it may 
receive from others. The true patriot is to 
be loyal to his country even though the coun- 
try has been ungrateful to him. The Chris- 
tian in his private relations is never to let his 
heart become embittered by any injustice 
done to him. 

Sometimes beside the brackish sea you will 
find a spring of water gushing up, as sweet 
as any that bursts from the hillside. When 
the tide is low you dip up its clear water and 
drink it and it refreshes you. A few moments 
later you come again and find the tide cover- 
ing the place, its bitter waters rolling over 
the spring; but in a little while you pass 
again, and now the tide has rolled out to sea. 
You find the spring again and its clear 
streams are pouring up as sweet as before, 
[82] 



<®rotomg like Cfjrfet 



without a trace of the brackishness of the sea 
in which the spring has been folded so long. 
So should it be with the love of the Christian 
heart. No wrong, no ingratitude, no cruelty, 
should ever embitter it. We should never 
cease to pray for others because they have 
been unkind to us. 

TStmtitul ILUt^in 

The ideal life is one that is beautiful within 
and without. In the description of the King's 
daughter, the common version of our Bible 
says she is "all glorious within ; her clothing 
is of wrought gold." The splendor of her 
spirit within is matched by her outer raiment. 

One day a thoughtful girl was reading in 
an old book. It was time-worn, but on its 
pages were golden words which enshrined the 
wisdom of an ancient age. As the girl read, 
her eyes lingered on one rare sentence, which 
seemed to have a special message for her that 
day. As she pondered it, it took fast hold 
[83] 



Cfje a&orp of tfje Commonplace 



of her thought until she began to breathe it 
as her own. It was a prayer — "God make me 
beautiful within." 

It was the beginning of a new life for the 
earnest-spirited girl. God had found her and 
touched her heart. She was hearing a voice 
which called her to an experience that she 
had not known before. 

learning to be (Senile 

There is a beautiful legend of the sweet- 
toned bell of the angels in heaven which softly 
rings at twilight. Its notes make a music 
supremely entrancing. But none can hear it 
save those only whose hearts are free from 
passion and clear of unlovingness and all sin. 
This is only a legend. No one on earth can 
hear the ringing of the bells of heaven. But 
there is a sweeter music which the lowliest 
may hear. Those who live the gentle life of 
patient, thoughtful, selfless love make a music 
whose strains are enrapturing. 

[ 84 ] 



<$rotomg Itfee Cfjrfet 



"The heart that feels the approval 
That comes from a kindly deed 
Knows well there's no sweeter music 
On which the spirit can feed. 

"In sweet'ning the life of another, 
In relieving a brother's distress, 
The soul finds its highest advancement, 
And the noblest blessedness. 

"That life is alone worth the living 
That lives for another's gain; 
The life that comes after such living 
Is the rainbow after the rain. 

"This spirit of human kindness 

Is the angel the soul most needs; 
It sings its most beautiful paean, 

While the heart does its noblest deeds." 

<H$t T5tauty ot fye Imptittct 

A mother found her boy trying to draw. 
Very rude were the attempts, but to her quick 
eye and eager heart the figures were beau- 
tiful. They had in them the prophecies of the 
[85] 



Cfje Oftforp of tfje Commonplace 



child's future and the mother stooped and 
kissed him in her gladness, praising his work. 
Compared with the artist's masterpiece when 
the boy had reached his prime, these rough 
sketches had no loveliness whatever. But they 
were beautiful in their time as the boy's first 
efforts. 

The same is true of all faithful efforts to 
learn how to live. We may follow Christ very 
imperfectly, stumbling at every step, realiz- 
ing but in the smallest measure the qualities 
of ideal discipleship ; yet if we are doing our 
best, and are continually striving toward 
whatsoever things are lovely, our efforts and 
attainments are beautiful in the eye of the 
Master and pleasing to Him. 

A Christian man was called upon by another 
who had wronged him in ways most malign 
and offensive, asking now, however, in a great 
and pressing need, for help. Other persons 
[86] 



<$rotoms lifee Cfjrtsit 



had been appealed to by him, but had refused 
to do anything. Even his own brothers and 
sisters had turned away, saying they would 
do nothing for him. All the world had grown 
tired helping him ; no one was left. When the 
appeal came to this man to relieve the dis- 
tress, though there was no confession made of 
the grievous wrong done in the past, no 
apology offered, he quietly and without a 
word, at sore cost to himself, cheerfully gave 
the help that was needed. See the print of 
the nails J 



[87] 



IV 

^mistering tip tfje Way 



jfl^mtstermg ftp tfje Way 

In tfjt Common Gflla^ 

The way to find Christ is to look for Him in 
the common ways. This is the way to find 
our duty, too. Many people are always think- 
ing of their mission in the world as something 
unusual. They do not suppose that anything 
so common as life's ordinary tasks could be 
the thing God wants them to do, the thing 
they were sent into the world to do. When 
they think of being of use in the world, they 
expect to have the opportunity of doing some 
fine thing, something out of the ordinary 
routine. But, as a rule, we find our best 
work, the things we are meant to do, our 
chances for being useful to others, in the line 
of our common duty. Here is a scrap from 
a recent story : 

M 'If I could only be of some use in the 
[91] 



Cfje <t$loxp of tfje Commonplace 



world,' cried Frances, impatiently, 'or could 
fill some place in it, I would not complain.' 

" 'Well,' suggested Cousin Patty, 'making 
beds is very useful work. Your mother seems 
to need some one now to fill the place of men- 
der-in-ordinary in the family. Why not be- 
gin where you are to be useful? I never saw 
anybody willing to be of use who couldn't 
be used right where he stood. As for filling 
places — did you ever think that you are put 
into your own place so as to fill that ? Want- 
ing to climb out of your own place before you 
have filled it, to go hunting for an empty one 
somewhere else, never seemed to me a sensible 
thing to do.' " 

This fragment of conversation suggests a 
very common mistake, and the way to prevent 
making it. Do the duty that comes next to 
your hand, and you will find yourself near to 
heaven. Do not wander everywhere, looking 
for Christ. He is not far off. You do not 
need to climb mountains or cross seas to see 
Him. Look for Him in the midst of the tasks 
of the common days. He was made known at 
[92] 



^mistering &i> tfje Way 



Emmaus, not in some splendid transfigura- 
tion, but in the breaking of bread at the com- 
mon meal. Do your duty in the lowly ways 
and you will see the blessed Face beaming its 
love upon you. 

Some of us feel that we are not yet free. We 
cannot live the true, sweet life we want to live. 
But Christ is able to set us free. He over- 
came the world, all the power of evil, and in 
His name we can be more than conquerors. 
This is the good news which the gospel brings. 
From old crusading times comes a story. A 
certain king, on his way back from the Holy 
Land, was captured and cast into prison — 
where, none of his friends knew. The king 
had a favorite minstrel, who determined to 
find his master. He went throughout the 
country, pausing before the door of every 
prison, singing the songs he had been wont 
to sing before his king. He hoped thus to 
find the captive monarch. Long he journeyed 
[93] 



Cfje <0lorp of tfje Commonplace 



in vain, but at last, as he stood before a 
prison window and sang, he heard a voice 
within — the voice of him he sought. The old 
songs, sung at the prison window, were heard 
by the captive, who was soon released. So 
the messengers of Christ go through this 
world singing the song of Christ's love be- 
fore every prison door. And whosoever hears 
the song is made free. 

^ti place ot mitnt&$ 

A settlement worker found a young Chris- 
tian girl in a very unhappy state of mind be- 
cause she had to work in a mill when she 
wanted to study and "get up a little." She 
was a worthy girl, capable of making a good 
deal of her life. But at present her home 
needed her help, and it was impossible, there- 
fore, for her to give up her uncongenial work. 

The friend gave the girl a book which she 
thought might help her, and left her to work 
out the problem for herself. The book sug- 
gested certain things the girl might do, even 
[94] 



UStntgterms ftp tfje Wap 



in the mill, to make her life splendidly worth 
while. 

"You know," she said one day, "there is 
only one of the twelve girls in my room who 
is a Christian." "Well," suggested her friend, 
"there is your opportunity." Since then the 
girl has not only been happy and at peace 
herself, but she has brought several of the 
girls to Christ and spoken to others who are 
interested. She accepted her assignment, be- 
came Christ's witness, and the noisy, uncon- 
genial mill has become a place of glad service. 

<W§t 9?an toit& a <Bmiu& tot Hftlpme; 

"There is a man," said his neighbor, speak- 
ing of the village carpenter, "who has done 
more good, I really believe, in this community 
than any other person who ever lived in it. 
He cannot talk very well in a prayer meet- 
ing, and he doesn't often try. He isn't worth 
two thousand dollars, and its very little he 
can put down on subscription-papers for any 
object. But a new family never moves into 
[95] 



Cfje <J3lorp of tfje Commonplace 



the village that he does not find them out, to 
give them a neighborly welcome, and to offer 
any little service he can render. He is always 
on the lookout to give s tran gers a seat in his 
pew at church. He is always ready to watch 
with a sick neighbor, and look after his affairs 
for him. I have sometimes thought that he 
and his wife kept house-plants in winter just 
to be able to send flowers to invalids. He finds 
time for a pleasant word for every child he 
meets ; and you'll see the children climbing 
into his one-horse wagon when he has no 
other load. He really seems to have a genius 
for helping folks in all sorts of common ways, 
and it does me good every day just to meet 
him on the street." 

Hty $®ini$ttit$ tfjat Count 9?o$t 

A legend says that when the monk Theo- 
dosius rose one morning, there were three im- 
perative things in his plan for the day ; three 
things which he determined to do before the 
setting of the sun. But early in the morn- 
C 96 ] 



^mistering tip tfje l©ap 



ing there came from a neighboring convent a 
novice, asking Theodosius to give him in- 
struction in the painter's art. The monk set 
to work patiently to tutor the novice, leaving 
his own task yet undone. At length the novice 
departed; but scarcely had Theodosius re- 
sumed his work when a mother came, eagerly 
seeking his aid for her sick child. Long was 
he detained, attending his patient, until the 
boy was relieved and restored. It was then 
time for vespers ; and then a brother monk in 
sore distress lingered, poured out his story 
on Theodosius' breast, and was comforted. 
Thus all the day was gone, and the monk had 
scarcely touched the things he had planned 
to do. He then 

"turned wearily to bed, 
Praying, 'O God! to glorify thy name 
Three things I purposed; now, with heart- 
felt shame 
I see the day is ended, and not one 
Of all those things my feeble skill hath done. 
Yet, since my life is thine, be thine to say 
Where shall be done the duties of the day ; 
[97] 



Cfje Oftforp of rtje Commonplace 



And in thy work, my work perfected be, 
Or given o'er in sacrifice to thee.' 

"Then suddenly upon his inward ear, 
There fell the answer, gentle, calm, and 
clear : 

'Thrice hath my name to-day been glorified 
In loving service, — teacher, friend, and guide. 
Such with God for man, if gladly done, 
Is heaven's ministry on earth begun. 
To work the works I purpose is to be 
At one with saints, with angels, and with me/ " 

The divinest ministries of each day are the 
things of love which God sends across our 
way. The half-hour j;he busy man takes from 
his business to co mfort a sorrow , to help a 
discouraged brother to start again, to lift up 
one who has fainted bj the way, to visit a 
sick neighbor and minister consolation, or to 
give a young person needed counsel, is the 
half -hour of the day that will^shine the most 
brightly when the records of life are unrolled 
before God. 



[98] 



UStntStertng ftp tfje l©ap 



Robing £>ut Colors 

Some of us would like to choose for ourselves 
our place of witnessing. It is easy to rise 
among Christian people on a quiet Sunday 
and say, "I am a Christian, too." But it 
may be harder to stand up to-morrow among 
those who do not love Christ and say the same 
words. A young man finds himself the only 
Christian in the office where he works. He 
shrinks from showing his colors there. But 
he is the only one Christ has in that office. 
If he should fail to witness for his Master in 
the presence of the men who are there they 
will fail to hear about Christ, perhaps will 
be lost for want of a word, and the blame will 
be his. Christ knows where He needs us and 
our service, and we should never fail Him 
wherever we are. 

Wiitne<tet$ tot Cljtfgtt 

Before Jesus went away from earth He told 
His disciples that they should be His witnesses, 
[99] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



This referred not only to the words they 
should speak concerning Him, but to every in- 
fluence of their lives. Sometimes in a court 
trial a great deal depends upon what one par- 
ticular witness may say. Men are brought 
long distances to testify in certain cases be- 
cause of the importance of what they know. 
A witness journeyed all the way from South 
America to the United States to occupy the 
witness stand but for five minutes, to answer 
only two or three questions. Recently several 
distinguished men traveled a thousand miles 
to say a few words in court regarding the 
personal character of an accused man and his 
standing and reputation for integrity in his 
former home. None of us know how much 
vve owe to the testimony of our neighbors 
concerning us, the good words they speak for 
us, the kindly mention they make of the things 
we do. If false or calumnious things are 
said of us by an enemy, the testimony of 
those who know us in our every-day life is our 
sole refuge. Our reputation is the composite 
of all the things that people who see much of 
[100] 



|[©infeterms hp tfje Way 



us and know our daily lives witness concern- 




IBUjSpontimfi; to t§e Pteton 

One bitter winter night one of the boys Dr. 
Barnardo had been teaching asked leave to re- 
main all night in the stable where the little 
school was held. "Oh, no! run away home," 
said the doctor. "Got no home," said the boy. 
"Be off," said the teacher sharply; "go to 
your mother." The boy said he had no mother, 
had no father, didn't live anywhere, had no 
friends. Dr. Barnardo talked with him 
further, and learned that he was only one of 
many waifs who literally had no home, no 
father, no mother, no friends, lived nowhere. 
The boy led him out — it was midnight — and 
showed him where a number of these boys 
stayed. Peeping into barrels, boxes, and holes, 
and striking matches, he found at last a woe- 
begone group of eleven poor boys, from nine 
to eighteen years old, sleeping in all postures, 
clad in their rags, with nothing to cover 
[101] 



Cije OStorp of tfje Commonplace 

them, exposed to the bitter wind — a spectacle 
to angels and men, sorrowful enough to break 
any heart of love. 

"Shall I wake 'em up?" asked Jim Jarvis, 
the boy-guide who had brought Dr. Barnardo 
to this scene of want. "Shall I show you an- 
other lay, sir? There's lots more." But the 
young student had seen enough. Sick at 
heart, he went home, saddened, amazed, be- 
wildered, but the vision of misery and wretch- 
edness he had seen led to his devoting his life 
to the saving of waifs and strays. During the 
forty years that he lived, giving himself 
wholly to this one work, he rescued more than 
fifty thousand children from the gutter, fed 
them, trained them, and set most of them, 
at least, in honest ways of life. He organized 
a great rescue work which is going on, now 
that he is gone. All this because he was not 
disobedient to the vision which broke upon his 
eyes that cold midnight. 

Wherever a vision of suffering, of need, of 
degradation, of want, or of sin is shown to 
us, it should be regarded as a call to us 
[ 102 ] 



jfll&tmgtermg tip tfje Way 



to do something to give relief, to rescue, or 
to save. 

The secret of abundant helpfulness is found 
in the desire to be a help, a blessing, to all we 
meet. One wrote to a bereft mother of her 
little one who had gone to heaven: "Gratia 
was in our home only once when but five years 
of age, and yet the influence of her brief stay 
has been filling every day since in all these 
three years, especially in the memory of one 
little sentence which was continually on the 
child's lips wherever she went, 'Can I help 
thee ?' " We begin to be like Christ only when 
we begin to wish to be helpful. Where this 
desire is ever dominant, the life is an unceas- 
ing benediction. Rivers of water are pouring 
out from it continually to bless the world. 



[103] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



Si Cobeteti l^ono 

We can readily call to mind friends and ac- 
quaintances with whom life has passed rough- 
ly during the year. Let us write to them. 
Write to the friend far away, who is fighting 
a hard battle, and tell him that you think of 
him constantly. Write to the sick friend who 
fancies herself of no use in the world and tell 
her that her life matters much to you. Hugh 
Price Hughes, Dr. Robertson Nicholl says, 
kept very few letters, but in searching 
through his desk one day his wife came upon 
one from a special friend which Mr. Hughes 
had not destroyed. He had been passing 
through a serious trial, and this friend had 
written him a letter of encouragement and 
strong affection. Then Dr. Nicholl says, "If 
I were to covet any honor of friendship, it 
would be this — that some letters of mine 
might be found in the desks of my friends, 
when their life struggle is ended." 



[104] 



HSmfeterms tip tfje Wap 



We must not make the mistake of thinking 
that Christian work consists merely in de- 
votions and acts of worship. A minister 
preached one day about heaven, and his ser- 
mon was greatly enj oyed by his people. Next 
morning a wealthy member of the church 
met the pastor and spoke warmly of the 
discourse. "That was a good sermon about 
heaven," he said. "But you didn't tell us 
where heaven is." 

"Oh," said the minister, "I can tell you 
now. Do you see yonder hill-top? In a cot- 
tage there, is a member of our church. She 
is sick in one bed, and her two children are 
sick in another bed. I have just come from 
her house. There is not a lump of coal, nor 
a stick of wood, nor a loaf of bread, nor any 
flour in that house. If you will go down town 
and buy some provisions and some coal, and 
send them to that home, and then go yourself 
to the house and read the Twenty-third 
Psalm beside the woman's sick-bed, and kneel 
[105] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



and pray with her, you will know where 
heaven is." 

Next morning the man met his pastor 
again, and said, "You were right — I found 
heaven." In the place of worship we learn of 
heaven's joy and happiness; out in the fields 
of need we find heaven in service of love. 

planting IBemty tiEtagtoStte 

A writer tells of an English nobleman, who, 
when he went over his estate, always carried 
acorns in his pocket; and when he found a 
bare spot, he would plant one of them. By 
and by there would be a tree growing on the 
place, adorning it. So we may plant on 
every empty space of time a seed of some- 
thing beautiful, which will not only be an 
adornment, but will prove a blessing to 
others. It is one of the finest secrets of life 
to know how to redeem the minutes from 
waste, and to make them bearers of blessing, 
of cheer, of encouragement, of good, to 
others. 

[106] 



^mustering bp tfje Way 



If you are the only Christian in the shop, the 
store, or the office where you work, a peculiar 
responsibility rests upon you, a responsibility 
which no other one shares with you. You are 
Christ's only witness in your place. If you 
do not testify there for Him, there is no other 
one who will do it. Miss Havergal tells of 
her experience in the girls' school at Diissel- 
dorf. She went there soon after she had be- 
come a Christian and had confessed Christ. 
Her heart was very warm with love for her 
Saviour and she was eager to speak for Him. 
To her amazement, however, she soon learned 
that among the hundred girls in the school, 
she was the only Christian. Her first thought 
was one of dismay — she could not confess 
Christ in that great company of worldly, 
un-Christian companions. Her gentle, sensi- 
tive heart shrank from a duty so hard. Her 
second thought, however, was that she could 
not refrain from confessing Christ. She was 
the only one Christ had there and she must 
[107] 



Cfje <JMorp of tfte Commonplace 



be faithful. "This was very bracing," she 
writes. "I felt I must try to walk worthy of 
my calling for Christ's sake. It brought a 
new and strong desire to bear witness for 
my Master. It made me more watchful and 
earnest than ever before, for I knew that any 
slip in word or deed would bring discredit 
on my Master." She realized that she had 
a mission in that school, that she was Christ's 
witness there, His only witness, and that she 
dare not fail. 

A sailor boy brought home a fuchsia to his 
mother from some foreign cruise. She put 
it in a window-box and it grew, and by its 
beauty drew attention to itself. Soon there 
were fuchsias in other neighboring windows 
and in countless gardens. Thus the one little 
plant which the boy brought over seas multi- 
plied itself and spread everywhere. If on 
the judgment day the Master shows this boy 
fuchsias growing in gardens, in window- 
[108] 



^mfetermg tip tfje Way 



boxes, in conservatories in many lands, and 
says, "You planted all these ; all this beauty 
is from your hand," the boy will be over- 
whelmed with surprise. He never saw these 
thousands of blooming plants. "Lord, when 
did I plant all these?" But we understand 
it. His hand brought one little plant, in love, 
from a foreign land, and the one has multi- 
plied into all this vast harvest of loveliness. 

* 

^oto tie ®$$i0ttt IBUbealg Htmgtlf 

H. Isabel Graham has written a beautiful 
story in the form of a legend of a monk who 
knelt continually in his cell and prayed to 
be fashioned into the likeness of the cross. 
He had made a vow that none should see his 
face until he had looked upon the face of 
Christ. So his devotions were unbroken. The 
birds sang by his cell window and the children 
played without, but the monk heeded not 
either the children or the birds. In the ab- 
sorption of his soul in its passion for the 
[109] 



Cfje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



Christ, he was oblivious to all earthly things. 
One morning he seemed to hear a spirit-voice 
saying that his prayer to see the Blessed One 
should be answered that day. He was very 
glad and made special preparation for the 
coming of the vision. There was a gentle 
knocking at his door by and by, and the voice 
of a child was heard pleading to be fed and 
taken in. Her feet were cold, her clothing 
was thin. But the monk was so intent on 
the coming of the vision that he could not 
pause to minister to any human needs. Eve- 
ning drew on, the place became dreary, the 
tapers burned low. Why was the vision 
so long in appearing? Then, with bitter 
grief, the monk heard the answer that the 
vision had already come, had lingered at his 
door, and then, unwelcomed, had sobbed and 
turned away. Jesus had come in a little 
child, cold and hungry, had knocked, and 
called, and waited, and, grieved, had gone. 
The monk had been expecting some shining 
splendor, like the burning bush, or the trans- 
figuration. The vision had come as a little 
[110] 



child in need, seeking help, and he had not 
recognized it, and had refused to receive it. 

We have a desire to see Christ. We long 
for visions of His beauty and glory. We wait 
in our place of prayer, hoping that He will 
reveal Himself in some theophany. We sit at 
the Holy Supper and plead with Him to show 
Himself to us in some celestial brightness. We 
go apart into some sacred retreat, and pray 
and meditate, thinking He will come to meet 
us there. But we are much more likely to 
have Him come to us in some human need to 
which we may minister, in some sorrow which 
we may comfort, or in some want which we 
can supply. "I was hungry, and ye gave me 
to eat ; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink ; 
I was a stranger, and ye took me in; . . . 
I was sick, and ye visited me. . . . Inas- 
much as ye did it unto one of these my 
brethren, even these least, ye did it unto me." 



1 1" ] 



V 

^crbmg tfic Horb 



Ifatnegteeti tot Cfjttet 

A man found a wild torrent in the mountain. 
It could work only waste and ruin as it 
rushed, uncontrollable, down the gorge. He 
built a flume for it, and carried its wild flood 
in quiet streams down into the valley, where 
they watered the fields and gardens, gave 
drink to the thirsty, and turned many a wheel 
of industry. That was far better than if 
he had dried up the torrent. It was far better, 
too, than if he had left it to flow on forever 
with destructive force. Now it was flumed 
and made to do good, and make the world 
richer and more beautiful. That is what God 
wants to do with the cravings, the desires, the 
passions, the longings, and all the mighty 
energies of our nature. They are not to be 
destroyed. Yet they are not to be allowed 
[115] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



to work waste and ruin in efforts to find 
gratification in merely earthly channels, in 
unbridled license. 

That is sin's way. Rather, these great 
forces in our nature are to come under the 
yoke of Christ, and are to be led by him into 
all holy service for God and man. 

probing jGDur WitliQion 

It is related of a great artist that he was once 
wandering in the mountains of Switzerland, 
when some officials met him and demanded his 
passport. "I do not have it with me," he re- 
plied, "but my name is Dore." "Prove it, if 
you are," replied the officers, knowing who 
Dore was, but not believing that this was he. 
Taking a piece of paper the artist hastily 
sketched a group of peasants who were stand- 
ing near, and did it with such grace #nd skill 
that the officials exclaimed, "Enough, you are 
Dore." 

The world cares little for a mere pro- 
[116] 



^erbtng tfje Horb 



fession. We say we are Christians, and the 
challenge is, "Prove it." If we are of Christ 
we must be able to do the works of Christ, 
to live the life of Christ, to show the spirit 
of Christ. The artist's skillful drawing proved 
his identity. We must prove that we are 
the followers of our Master by the love, the 
grace, the beauty, the holiness of our life. 

Religion is not merely a matter of creed 
and profession, or of church-going and public 
worship ; it is far more a matter of daily life. 
It is not how we behave on Sundays, nor the 
kind of creed we hold, nor the devoutness of 
our worship; it is the way we act at home, 
in school, in business, in society, in our as- 
sociations with men. It is vitally important 
that all who are Christ's in name shall mani- 
fest Christ's beauty in life and character. It 
it not enough to witness for Christ in our 
words ; we are to be witnesses to Christ and 
for Him in ourself. It is not enough to 
preach the gospel in sermon or exhortation; 
the gospel that honors Christ truly is the 
gospel mfn read in our daily life. 

[H7] 



Cfje OSlorp of the Commonplace 



JLoyalty to €%ti$t 

Dr. G. Campbell Morgan tells of a friend 
of his who had a little daughter that he 
dearly loved. They were great friends, the 
father and daughter, and were always togeth- 
er. But there seemed to come an estrange- 
ment on the child's part. The father could 
not get her company as formerly. She seemed 
to shun him. If he wanted her to walk with 
him, she had something else to do. The father 
was grieved and could not understand what 
the trouble was. His birthday came and in 
the morning his daughter came to his room, 
her face radiant with love, and handed him 
a present. Opening the parcel, he found a 
pair of exquisitely worked slippers. 

The father said, "My child, it was very 
good of you to buy me such lovely slippers." 
"O father," she said, "I did not buy them — 
I made them for you." Looking at her he 
said, "I think I understand now what long 
has been a mystery to me. Is this what you 
have been doing the last three months?" 
[118] 



^erbmg tfje Horb 



"Yes," she said, "but how did you know how 
long I have been at work on them?" He 
said, "Because for three months I have missed 
your company and your love. I have wanted 
you with me, but you have been too busy. 
These are beautiful slippers, but next time 
buy your present and let me have you all the 
days. I would rather have my child herself 
than anything she could make for me." 

We are in danger of being so busy in the 
Lord's work that we cannot be enough with 
the Lord in love's fellowship. He may say 
to us, "I like your works, your toils, your 
service, but I miss the love you gave me at 
first." There is real danger that we get so 
busy in striving to be active Christians, so 
absorbed in our tasks and duties, our efforts 
to bring others into the church, that Christ 
himself shall be less loved and shall miss our 
communing with him. Loyalty means first of 
all devotion. Has Christ really the highest 
place in your heart? It is not your work that 
he wants most — it is you. It is beautiful to 
do things for him — it is still more beautiful to 
[H9] 



Qlfyt OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



make a home for him in your heart. A young 
man, at great cost, has brought from many 
countries the most beautiful materials he 
could find and has built as a memorial to his 
dead wife an exquisite little chapel. Only a 
few men could do anything so rare, so lovely. 
But the poorest of us can enthrone our loved 
ones in our hearts, and the poorest of us can 
please Christ even more by making a little 
sanctuary in our hearts for him. 

There is a story of a woman who had had 
many sorrows. Parents, husband, children, 
wealth, all were gone. In her great grief she 
prayed for death, but death came not. She 
would not take up any of her wonted work for 
Christ. One night she had a dream. She 
thought she had gone to heaven. She saw 
her husband and ran to him with eager joy, 
expecting a glad welcome. But, strange to 
say, no answering joy shone on his face — 
only surprise and displeasure. "How did you 
[120] 



J>ertung tfje Horb 



come here?" he asked. "They did not say 
you were to be sent for to-day. I did not 
expect you for a long time yet." 

With a bitter cry she turned from him to 
seek her parents. But instead of the tender 
love for which her heart was longing, she 
met from them only the same amazement and 
the same surprised questions. 

"I'll go to my Saviour," she cried. "He 
will welcome me if no one else does." When 
she saw Christ there was infinite love in his 
look, but his words throbbed with sorrow as 
he said: "Child, child, who is doing your 
work down there?" At last she understood. 
She had no right yet to be in heaven. Her 
work was not finished. She had fled away 
from her duty. 

This is one of the dangers of sorrow, that 
in our grief for those who are gone we lose 
our interest in those who are living and 
slacken our zeal in the work which is allotted 
to us. When one asked to be allowed to bury 
his father before beginning to follow Christ, 
the answer was "Leave the dead to bury their 
[121] 



Cf)e <£lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



own dead but go thou and publish abroad the 
kingdom of God." However great our be- 
reavement, we may not drop our tasks until 
the Master calls us away. 

gating €)ur Btaetemotf 

Dr. Watson (Ian Maclaren) tells of once 
hearing a plain sermon in a little country 
church. It was a layman, a farmer, who 
preached, but Dr. Watson says he never 
heard so impressive an ending to any sermon 
as he heard that day. After a fervent pre- 
sentation of the gospel, the preacher said with 
great earnestness: "My friends, why is it 
that I go on, preaching to you, week by 
week? It is just this — because I can't eat 
my bread alone." That is the Master's own 
burden — his heart is breaking to have men 
share with him the blessings of life. He can- 
not bear to be alone in his joy. There is no 
surer test of love for Christ than the longing 
to have others love him. 

[122] 



TOje St^ogt prmoug {Rung 

The first step in returning to God is always 
to make confession. Until we have done this 
we cannot be forgiven, and until we are for- 
given there can be no restoration to the divine 
favor. In an Oriental story, nothing would 
open the gate of heaven for the exiled spirit 
until she found a man weeping bitterly over 
his sins. Catching a tear as it fell from his 
eye, she brought that to the angel-warder and 
was admitted. A class of pupils in an institu- 
tion for the deaf were asked by a visitor, 
"What is the most precious thing in the 
world?" Many different answers were given. 
One wrote, "Going home;" another, "A 
mother's love ;" another, "To have a friend." 
When the last and youngest came to the 
board she wrote, with trembling fingers and 
bowed head, "The tear of penitence." And 
she was right. If we have sinned, there is no 
gift we can bring to the Lord that is half 
so precious in his sight as a penitential tear. 
It will open heaven's gates to us when all the 
[ 123 ] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



good works of a hundred lifetimes would not 
cause it to move on its hinges. 

motkins tot (Bob 

The truest life is that which is lived most 
fully and unbrokenly unto God. In one of 
his books Dr. W. L. Watkinson relates that 
Jenny Lind said to John Addington Sy- 
monds, in accounting for the motive and spirit 
of her wonderful singing, "I sing to God." 
She meant that she looked into God's face, 
as it were, and consciously sang to him. She 
did not sing to the vast audience that hung 
on her words and was held spellbound by 
them. She was scarcely conscious of any face 
before her but God's. She thought of no 
listening ear but God's. We may not all be 
able to enter into such perfect relation with 
God as did this marvelous singer, but this is 
the only true ideal of all Christian life. We 
should do each piece of work for God. The 
business man should do all his business for 
God. The artist should paint his picture 
[ 124] 



J>erbmg tfje Horb 



for God. The writer should write his book for 
God. The farmer should till his ground for 
God. This means that we are always engaged 
in the Father's business and must do it all in 
a way that he will approve. Jesus was a 
carpenter, for many years working at the 
carpenter's bench. We are sure that he did 
each piece of work for his Father's eye. He 
did it skillfully, conscientiously, beautifully. 
He did not skimp it nor hurry through it so 
as to get away from the shop earlier. 

It is not enough to make our lives true only 
so far as men can see them. We have but 
scorn for men who profess truth, and then 
in their secret life reveal falsehood, decep- 
tion, insincerity. There must be truth 
through and through in the really noble and 
worthy building. A little flaw, made by a 
bubble of air in the casting, has been the 
cause of the breaking of the great beam 
[ 125] 



Qtfyt <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



years afterward, and the falling of the im- 
mense bridge whose weight rested upon it. 
Truth must be in the character — absolute 
truth. The least falsehood mars the beauty 
of the life. 

Stot flSoD'g €vt 

When a heathen artist was askecl why he 
took so much pains with the back of the 
figures he was chiselling, since they would 
be against the walls and no one would ever 
see them, his noble answer was, "The gods 
will see them." Always we are working for 
God's eye, and should ever do our best. 

Not only are we working for God's eye, 
but it is God's own work that we are doing. 
Whether a man is a carpenter, a painter, a 
stone-cutter, a farmer, a teacher or a minis- 
ter, it is God's work he has in hand; and he 
must do his best. Old Stradivarius, the 
violin-maker, was right when he said that if 
his hand slacked he would rob God. We rob 
God whenever we do anything carelessly, or 
[126] 



J>ertomg tfje TLoxh 



do less than our best. A writer says, "The 
universe is not quite complete without my 
work well done." We misrepresent God and 
disappoint him when we do in a slovenly way 
anything, however small, that he gives us 
to do. 

l£oto Careful ClOotfe Hoi* 

Men said the old smith was foolishly careful 
as he wrought on the chain he was making in 
his dingy shop in the heart of the great city. 
But he heeded not their words, and only 
wrought with greater painstaking. Link 
after link he fashioned, and at last the chain 
was finished and carried away. In time it 
lay coiled on the deck of a great ship which 
sped back and forth on the ocean. There 
seemed no use for it, for the great anchor 
never was needed, and the chain lay there 
uncoiled. So years passed. But one night 
there was a fearful storm, and the ship was 
in sore peril of being hurled upon the rocks. 
Anchor after anchor was dropped, but none 
[ 127] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



of them availed; the chains were broken like 
threads. At last the great sheet anchor was 
cast into the sea, and the old chain was 
quickly uncoiled and run out until it grew 
taut. All watched to see if it would bear the 
awful strain. It sang in the wild storm as 
the vessel's weight surged upon it. It was a 
moment of intense anxiety; the ship with its 
cargo of a thousand lives depended upon this 
one chain. What now if the old smith had 
wrought carelessly even on one link of his 
chain? But he had put honesty, truth, and 
invincible strength into every part of it, and 
it stood the test, holding the ship in safety 
until the storm was over and the morning 
came. 

W&t Mobility ot &tvbitt 

Those highest in rank in this world are they 
that serve the most cheerfully, the most self- 
forgetfully. "Ich Dien" is the motto under 
the triple plume of the Prince of Wales. The 
origin of the motto dates back more than five 
[128] 



J>erbmg tfje Horb 



hundred and fifty years. It was originally 
the motto of John of Luxemburg, King of 
Bohemia, who was killed in the battle of 
Crecy in 1346. Edward found the King 
dead on the field, with the royal flag on his 
breast, and under the crest of three ostrich 
feathers the words, "Ich Dien" — "I serve." 
Edward gave it to his son, and now for more 
than five hundred and fifty years it has been 
an adopted sign, a heritage of voluntary 
service. There could be no more royal motto 
for one to wear who is preparing to rule. A 
true king is the nation's first servant. The 
noblest and most manly man in any com- 
munity is he who most devotedly, most un- 
selfishly, with sincerest love and interest, 
serves his fellow-men. 

&ft|en &attiUtt &mttiUt$ JLobt 

One was speaking of a friend who for years 
had professed faithful friendship, but who 
the moment that friendship demanded an act 
of self-denial failed and fell back. Nothing 
[ 129] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



ever really begins to count as worthy living 
until love passes out of the commonplace ex- 
pression into the splendor of sacrifice. There 
is no true glory in life — there may be beauty, 
there may be winsomeness, but there is no 
glory in any service for Christ if it stops 
short of sacrifice. It is said that when Dr. 
Temple was Bishop of London he sent a 
young man to a position involving much 
hardship. The young man's friends tried 
to dissuade him from accepting it, and he 
went to the bishop and told him that he be- 
lieved he would not live two years if he ac- 
cepted the appointment. Dr. Temple listened 
and replied somewhat in this way : "But you 
and I do not mind a little thing like that — 
do we?" 

& Hosei W^o men 

A little poem tells of a race. A number of 
runners were on the course. There was one 
who at first seemed destined to outstrip all the 
others- The way was long, and the goal was 
[ 180] 



far away. Still the favorite kept in the lead. 
But those who were watching the race saw 
this man stop by and by and lift up a little 
child that had fallen in the way and take it 
out of danger. A little later, a comrade 
fainted and he turned aside to help him. A 
woman appeared, frail and inexperienced, and 
he lingered to help her find the way. The 
watchers saw the favorite again and again 
leave his race to comfort, cheer, or help those 
who were in distress or peril. Meanwhile he 
lost his lead, and others passed him ; and when 
the winners reached the goal he was far be- 
hind. He did not receive the prize for the 
race, but the real honor was his. Love had 
ruled his course, and the blessing of many 
helped by him was his. The only true monu- 
ment any one can have is built of love. 

When Dr. Temple, afterward Archbishop 
Temple, was head master of Rugby School, 
he visited the boys one day when they had 
[131] 



^fje 45lorp of tfje Commonplace 



been sent to clean out the pigsties. One of the 
boys went to him and said : "Am I forced to 
do this dirty task?" "I suppose not," he re- 
plied; "you are not exactly forced." "May 
I go, then, sir?" asked the student. "Yes," 
answered Dr. Temple slowly. "Give me the 
rake." The student was about handing him 
the rake when he saw the head master taking 
off his coat. He was going to do the dirty 
work himself. The student said: "I don't 
want you to do it, sir." "Somebody must do 
it," was the reply. The young man took the 
rake and did the work, and never grumbled 
any more. Thus it was that Christ took his 
place in life, not as a mere master, but as one 
who served. He took the lowest place. When 
none of his disciples would do the servant's 
part, when they shrank from it and asked, 
"Must we do it?" He answered: "No; you 
are not forced to do it. Give me the basin 
and the towel." And before they knew what 
He was doing, He was on His knees, washing 
their feet. How the Master's lowly service 
shamed the proud disciples that night ! How 
[ 132] 



J>erbuia tfje Horo 



it ought to shame us to-day, when we are 
still too proud to take the servant's place 
and do the hard and lowly things! 

It will be pathetic for any redeemed one to 
come home with no fruit of service. A guest 
at the Hospice of St. Bernard in the Alps tells 
this incident of one of the noble St. Bernard 
dogs that have saved so many men. This dog 
came struggling home one morning through 
the snow, exhausted and faint, till he reached 
the kennel. There he was wildly welcomed by 
the other dogs. But sad and crestfallen, he 
held his head and tail to the floor, and crept 
away and lay down in a dark corner of the 
kennel. The monks explained that he was 
grieved and ashamed because he had found 
no one to rescue that morning from the 
storm-drifts. How shall we feel, we whom 
Christ has redeemed, if we come home at last, 
ourselves, without having brought any one 
with us? 

[ 1S3 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



Cute tot 2Dis»c0uragnn*nt 

There was a woman who had become embit- 
tered by a long experience of sickness and 
of injustice and wrong, until she was shut 
up in a prison of hopelessness. Then, by rea- 
son of the death of a relative, a little mother- 
less child was brought to her door. The door 
was opened most reluctantly, at first; the 
child was not warmly welcomed. Yet when 
she was received, Christ entered with her, 
and at once the dreary home began to grow 
brighter. The narrowness began to be en- 
larged. Other human needs came and were 
not turned away. In blessing others, the 
woman was blessed herself. To-day there is 
no happier home than hers. Try it if you 
are discouraged. Begin to serve those who 
need your love and ministry. Encourage 
some other disheartened one, and your own 
discouragement will pass away. Brighten an- 
other's lonely lot, and your own will be 
brightened. 



[134] 



«$t 2DiH 3ft Winto m" 

There is a pleasant legend of St. Martin. 
He was a soldier. One bitter night a beggar, 
scantily clad, asked alms of the soldier. All 
he had was his soldier's cloak. Drawing his 
sword he cut the cloak in half, gave one part 
of it to the poor man and was content with 
the other part. That night he had a won- 
drous vision. He beheld Christ on his throne. 
Looking closely, he saw that the King in his 
glory was wearing half of the cloak which 
he had given to the beggar that night. 
Amazed, he heard the King say, "This hath 
Martin given to me." 

jBDofng flDur 25*0t 

Recently a Swiss vase, about sixteen inches 
in height, was put up at auction. It was 
dated 1763, A. D. No history of it was given. 
But the vase was so exquisite in its beauty 
and so surely genuine, that it brought more 
[135] 



Cfje <$lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



than twenty thousand dollars. Yet this rare 
thing was once a mere lump of common clay 
with a few moist colors on it. The value was 
in the toil and skill of the artist who shaped 
and colored it with such delicate patience. He 
did his best, and the vase witnessed to-day 
to his devotion and faithfulness. 

The frieze on the Parthenon at Athens was 
chiefly the work of Phidias. The figures 
were life size and stood fifty feet above the 
floor of the temple. For nearly two thousand 
years the work remained undisturbed. Near 
the close of the seventeenth century the frieze 
was shattered and its fragments fell upon the 
pavement. Then it was seen that the smallest 
detail of the work was perfect. Phidias had 
wrought for the eyes of the gods, for no hu- 
man eyes could see his work. We should do 
perfect work, even when we work obscurely, 
for nothing less is worthy the glory of our 
own life. We should set higher ideals for our- 
selves. We are not worms of the dust — we 
are immortal spirits, and this dignifies the 
lowest thing we do. Sweeping a room for 
[ 186 ] 



^ertung tfje Horb 



Christ is glorious work. Cobbling shoes may 
be made as radiant service in heaven's sight 
as angel ministry before God's throne. The 
glory is in ourselves, and we must express it 
in all that we do. 

jfrom prater to &ezbite 

The truest religious life is one whose devo- 
tion gives food and strength for service. 
The way to spiritual health lies in the paths 
of consecrated activity. It is related in 
monastic legends of St. Francesca, that al- 
though she was unwearied in her devotions, 
yet if during her prayers she was summoned 
away by any domestic duty, she would close 
her book cheerfully, saying that a wife and 
a mother, when called upon, must quit her 
God at the altar to find him in her domestic 
affairs. Yet the other side is just as true. 
Before there can be a strong, vigorous, 
healthy tree, able to bear much fruit, to 
stand the storm, to endure the heat and cold, 
there must be a well-planted and well-nour- 
[ 137] 



Cfce OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 

ished root; and before there can be a pros- 
perous, noble, enduring Christian life in the 
presence of the world, safe in temptation, un- 
shaken in trials, full of good fruits, perennial 
and unfading in its leaf, there must be a close 
walk with God in secret. 



[1S8] 



VI 

<OwrttM& anb Otfjers 



The upas tree which grows in Java has an 
acrid, milky juice which contains a virulent 
poison. According to the story told by a 
Dutch surgeon about a hundred years ago, 
the exhalations of this tree are fatal to both 
animal and vegetable life. Birds flying over 
the tree fall dead. No flower or plant will 
live near the tree. The story is probably un- 
true, but it illustrates human lives in this 
world whose influence always leaves a blight 
on others. They may be winning and at- 
tractive. They may come in the guise of 
friendship and wear the garb of innocence, 
but they have absorbed the poison of evil until 
their very breath is deadly. One cannot be 
with them, accepting their friendship, or com- 
ing under their influence, without being hurt 
by them. The sweet flowers of purity wither 
[141] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



in their presence. There are men and women 
whose merest touch is defiling, who carry 
moral blight for others wherever they go. 

An ancient legend tells of a maiden that 
was sent to Alexander from some conquered 
province. She was very beautiful, but the 
most remarkable thing about her was her 
breath, which was like the perfume of richest 
flowers. It was soon discovered, however, that 
she had lived all her life amid poison, breath- 
ing it, and that her body was full of poison. 
Flowers given to her withered on her breast. 
Insects on which she breathed perished. A 
beautiful bird was brought into her room and 
fell dead. Fanciful as this story is, there are 
lives which in a moral sense are just like this 
maiden. They have become so corrupt that 
everything they touch receives harming. 
Nothing beautiful can live in their presence. 
On the other hand, the Christian life is one 
whose warm atmosphere is a perpetual bene- 
diction. It is like the shadow of Peter, hav- 
ing healing power, so that all on whom it 
falls are enriched and blessed by it. 

[ 142 ] 



influence 

A poor boy was drawing home one day a lit- 
tle wagon filled with pieces of broken boards 
which he had gathered about some building 
operation. He was tired, his feet were bare, 
his clothing was ragged, his face was pinched 
and pale, telling of poverty and hunger. 
The boy had stopped to rest and had gone 
asleep. His cap had fallen from his head 
and his face was exposed to the sun. Then 
an old man, carrying a wood saw, passing 
along, saw the boy, and a look of pity came 
into his face. Taking from his pail his own 
scanty dinner, he laid it down beside the lad 
and hurried away. Others saw the act. A 
man walked down from his house near by 
and laid a silver half dollar beside the work- 
man's dinner. A woman, living across the 
street, brought a good cap. A child came 
running with a pair of shoes and another with 
a coat. Other persons stopped, whispered, 
dropped silver. So, from the old wood saw- 
yer's one kindly act, there had gone out this 
[143] 



C6e OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



wave of influence, leading a scor.e or more of 
people to do likewise. 

(Bmtle jFattltftntung 

It is sometimes necessary to tell our friends 
of their faults, but we should go about it in 
love, with prayer, and with wise and gentle 
tact. A gentle, loving way is better than 
blurting out the criticism, as some brusque 
people do, abruptly, calling it frankness, say- 
ing that they always honestly say what they 
believe. It may be honest and frank enough, 
but it is not the Christlike way. "What did 
you preach about yesterday?" asked an old 
clergyman of a young minister, one Monday. 
"On the judgment," replied the young man. 
"Did you do it tenderly?" asked the old pas- 
tor. We should never speak to others of their 
sins and faults unless we can do it tenderly. 

We need patience, too, and sometimes we 
must wait a long time for the opportunity to 
do our duty in this regard, to speak the right 
word. But the right occasion will come, if 
[ 144 ] 



we wait for it. Harm is done ofttimes by 
speaking too soon. 



flDttt SDtttg to tjr ftlieaft 

A little child is said once to have closed her 
prayer on a winter evening in this way: "I 
saw a little girl on the street this afternoon ; 
and she was cold and barefooted ; but it isn't 
any of our business; is it, God?" She was 
only more honest in her prayer than some 
older persons ; for many people certainly act 
as if they regarded it as none of their busi- 
ness, when they see their fellow-men suffering 
and in need. But the teaching of Christ 
shows that it is our business, that we are un- 
der obligation to love and serve all men. We 
are debtor to every man ; we may not owe him 
money, but we owe him love, and love means 
whatsoever help he needs, — bread for his 
hunger, or sympathy and cheer in his trial 
and struggle. 

[ 145 J 



Cfje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



A lady once said to Hogarth that she wished 
to learn to draw caricature. 

"Alas ; it is not a faculty to be envied," 
replied the great master of the art. 

"Take my advice, and never draw carica- 
ture. By the long practice of it I have lost 
the enjoyment of beauty. I never see a face 
but distorted, and never have the satisfaction 
to behold the human face divine." 

A similar word of caution is needed by all 
of us, lest our daily occupation and habit in- 
fluence us in our way of looking at the lives 
about us. The way to escape the danger is 
to be full of unjudging love. 

Scaling tottj) (Wbogz dflifio jfatl WL0 

Dr. J. H. Jowett says it is a common cus- 
tom in Syria to cut a reed and use it for a 
staff to lean on when walking. As one climbs 
a hill, however, and bears more of his weight 

[146] 



on his staff, it sometimes gives way and the 
reed becomes cracked and bruised. All a man 
can do then with his shattered staff is to break 
it altogether off and throw it away as a 
worthless thing. These poor reeds are sym- 
bols, Dr. Jowett suggests, of people on whom 
we have leaned and who have failed us. We 
trusted them and helped them in some time 
of need in their lives, and they did not prove 
loyal and true. We showed them kindness 
when they were in trouble and turned to us 
for help, and they forgot the kindness. They 
broke their word to us. The staff became a 
bruised reed. Now what should we do? 
Should we deal harshly with them? Should 
we cherish vindictiveness toward them? 
Shall we cast them off and say we will have 
nothing more to do with them? What would 
Jesus do? "A bruised reed will He not 
break." We need the gentleness of Christ in 
dealing with those who have failed us or 
proved ungrateful to our kindness. 



[147] 



^Tfje <&lovv of tfje Commonplace 



<Wt)t ^otoer of Sttim^ip 

A request came from a hospital for the send- 
ing of a birthday letter to a nurse. Other 
friends were also in the secret. The nurse 
was far from home and was dreadfully home- 
sick. Next day she wrote to a friend in glow- 
ing words of what her birthday had been to 
her in happiness and what it had done for her 
in the way of love's revealing. She said she 
could not express her gladness. She had 
never known before what love meant. 

The world is full of people who are just 
as hungry-hearted, who know just as little 
of the sweet and beautiful things of love, and 
to whom a gracious, cheerful kindness will be 
a revealing of Christ, which will make all 
things new for them. Those of us who have 
been most highly favored, who have known 
much of love and love's sweet revealings, who 
have had many friends to brighten our lives 
in all circumstances, cannot understand the 
emptiness of many lives which do not know 
anything whatever of the meaning of sweet 
[148] 



human affection, who really never have had 
a friend. There are many who have scarcely 
ever received a real kindness in their whole 
life. To such it is a holy hour when one 
says to them, "I am going to be your friend." 
A teacher said this to a boy who had never 
heard such a word before. His lot was most 
dreary. He had been badly treated, receiv- 
ing only hard knocks, hearing only sharp 
and bitter words, no one ever having said to 
him anything gentle. When his teacher, his 
heart touched by the boy's forlorn loneliness, 
laid his hand on his shoulder and looking into 
his sad face, said, "Cheer up, my boy, I am 
going to be your friend," it was as if Christ 
himself had spoken. A new light flashed into 
the boy's face as he looked eagerly a little 
later and said, "Did you mean what you said 
to me a moment ago — that you would be my 
friend? If you are going to be my friend, 
I can be a man." 



[149] 



Cfje <!Morp of tfje Commonplace 



A young man was severely criticised by his 
companions for his closeness and meanness. 
He received a good salary, but lived in a 
pinched way, without even the plain comforts 
that his friends thought he could easily have 
afforded, and without any of that generous 
expenditure in social ways in which other 
young men of his class indulged. Many stric- 
tures were made on his meanness — as it 
seemed to his companions. That was one side 
of his life; but there was another. That 
young man had an only sister — they were 
orphans — who was a great sufferer, shut in 
her room, kept on her bed continually. This 
only brother provided for her. That was 
the reason he lived so closely, saving every 
cent he could save, and doing without many 
things which other young men thought in- 
dispensable, that she in her loneliness and 
pain might be cared for and might have com- 
forts. That was the other side of the char- 
acter, the one side of which had appeared 
[150] 



so unattractive to his friends. We see how 
unjust was their judgment, based on knowl- 
edge of only the one phase of his conduct. 
Seen in connection with its motive, the qual- 
ity so severely censured became a mark of 
noble, manly beauty. To judge from a frag- 
ment only is to judge ignorantly and un- 
justly. 

A tender story is told of Professor Blackie, 
of Edinburgh, which illustrates the same les- 
son. He was lecturing to a new class, and 
a student rose to read a paragraph, holding 
the book in his left hand. "Sir," thundered 
the professor, "hold your book in your right 
hand." The student attempted to speak. 
"No words, sir! your right hand, I say!" 
The lad held up his right arm, ending pite- 
ously at the wrist: "Sir, I hae nae right 
hand," he said. 

Before the professor could open his lips 
there arose such a storm of hisses as one 
perhaps must go to Edinburgh to hear, and 
by it his voice was overborne. Then he left 
his place, and going down to the student he 
[151] 



Qfyt <JMorp of tfje Commonplace 



had unwittingly hurt, he put his arm around 
the lad's shoulders and drew him close to his 
breast. "My boy," said Blackie, — he now 
spoke very softly, yet not so softly but that 
every word was audible in the hush that had 
fallen on the classroom, — "You'll forgive me 
that I was overrough ? I did not know — I did 
not know." 

C*ntoi0f amiability 

An English writer has some good words about 
flattery. They are suggested by a charac- 
ter in a recent story. It is that of an old 
woman who was clever but very disagreeable. 
One of her friends said to her that she ought 
to be more gracious and to give amiability 
a trial in her life. She was conscience stricken 
and confused as she thought of herself. "I'm 
a beast of an old woman," she said. "I can 
be agreeable if I choose; nobody more so." 
"Then why not choose to be so !" it was sug- 
gested. So she tried the experiment and was 
[152] 



greatly encouraged. Her amiability gave 
pleasure to her friends and she kept it up. 

But she was not always ■ wise in her new 
role of amiability. For instance, she fell into 
the habit of fattery, thinking that in this 
way she could please people. On every oc- 
casion she practiced this new art with as- 
siduity. The result was not always felicitous, 
however. Too often she would so overdo her 
praise of people that its insincerity became 
apparent. Even the vainest persons were 
made aware, by the extravagance of her 
words, that she was only playing with them, 
and the effect was not to please but to offend. 
She would break out in enthusiasm over a 
friend's bonnet or dress. She would go into 
paroxysms of mirth over the retelling by an- 
other friend of some old story or of some 
threadbare bit of humor. She would tell some 
old, withered woman how fresh and young she 
looked — like a young girl in her teens. So 
the good woman's excessive efforts at ami- 
ability had the effect of sarcasm upon those 
she supposed she was pleasing. 

[153] 



Cfje dHovv of tfje Commonplace 



A distinguished botanist, exiled from his na- 
tive country, found a position as under- 
gardener on a nobleman's estate. While he 
was there, his master received a rare plant 
with which no one in the estate was familiar. 
The head gardener, supposing it to be a 
tropical plant, put it in the hothouse to pro- 
tect it from the winter's cold. He thought 
the plant needed warmth. It did not thrive, 
however — indeed, it began to droop. The 
new under-gardener, knowing the plant, its 
native place and its nature, said: "This is 
an arctic plant. You are killing it by the 
tropical atmosphere into which you have in- 
troduced it." He took the plant out into the 
frost, and to the amazement of the gardener 
piled ice about it. Soon it began to recover 
its freshness and vigor, and its drooping life 
became vigorous and strong. It was being 
killed by summer heat when what it needed 
was the cold of winter. 

Friendship makes the same mistakes with 
[ 154 ] 



many lives. It coddles them, indulges them, 
treats them softly, with overkindness. It tries 
to make all things easy for them, instead of 
making strong, brave men of them. This is 
a mistake that is made by many parents in 
dealing with their children. They try to 
save them from all hardness, from self-denial, 
from work and straggle. They bring them 
up in hothouses, not knowing that they are 
arctic plants, and need the snow and ice 
about them instead of the warm air of the 
conservatory. 

Hit Hme TBznttattotg 

A thoughtful man was asked to contribute 
to the erection of a monument to a discour- 
ager, and replied, "Not a dollar. I am ready 
to contribute toward building monuments to 
those who make us hope, but I will not give 
a dollar to help perpetuate the memory and 
influence of those who live to make us de- 
spair." He was right. Men who make life 
harder for us cannot be called benefactors. 
[ 155] 



Cfje <JSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



The true benefactors are those who show us 
light in our darkness, comfort in our sorrow, 
hope in our despair. 

Sin fttttttibe l&rfmfte 

The principal of a girls' school once admin- 
istered an effective rebuke to a pupil who 
was always complaining of her ailments. This 
student came to school one morning whining 
about a "dreadful cold." The teacher said 
cheerfully, "Oh, I'm so glad you have one!" 
Naturally the girl was astonished; but the 
wise woman continued, "Why shouldn't I be 
glad? You are always doing something to 
make yourself ill; so of course you must en- 
joy it, and I am happy to have you pleased." 

This stinging sarcasm opened the girl's 
eyes to the knowledge that she herself was 
responsible, to a large extent, for her own 
bodily conditions, and that it was a reflection 
upon her intelligence, as well as her con- 
science, thus to ignore the laws of her phys- 
ical being. 

[ 156 ] 



# fringe for <ZDfyti& 

A beautiful story is told about the Agassiz 
brothers. Their home was in Switzerland, on 
the shore of a lake. One winter day the 
father was on the other side of the lake from 
the home, and the boys wanted to join him. 
The lake was covered with thick ice. The 
mother watched the boys from her window 
as they set out. They got on well until they 
came to a wide crack in the ice. Then they 
stopped, and the mother became very anxious, 
fearing they might be drowned. The older 
boy got over easily, but the little fellow was 
afraid to jump. Then, as the mother looked, 
she saw Louis, the older brother, get down on 
his face, his body stretched over the crack, 
making a bridge of himself and then she saw 
his little brother creep over on him. 

This story is a beautiful parable of love. 
We should be willing to make bridges of our- 
selves on which others may pass over the 
chasms and the streams that hinder them in 
their way. We have many opportunities of 
[157] 



^fje <IMor|> of tfje Commonplace 



doing this in helping our brothers over hard 
places, out of temptation, through sickness, 
to positions, or into some better way of living. 
It is not pleasant to lie down on the ice or 
in the wet and let another use us as a bridge. 
But Christ did it. His cross was just the 
laying of his own blessed Life over the awful 
chasm of death and despair that we might 
pass over on him into joy and hope and 
heaven. He endured the cross, despising 
shame, that he might save us. We cannot 
call ourselves Christians if we balk or falter 
or hesitate in responding to calls to endure 
suffering, loss, or shame in order to help 
others. "He that saveth his life shall lose it." 

"She may not be brilliant in the common ac- 
ceptation of the term," said a young woman 
of her friend, "and she is poor and unknown, 
yet, more than any one else, she has started 
me on the path of loving my neighbor as 
myself." 

[158] 



"How did she do it?" asked her listener. 

"She doesn't say — she does," was the reply. 
"She loves her neighbor and it shows in her 
whole being. She never says sharp or bitter 
things about people, because such things 
never come into her mind. I once asked my 
friend," she continued, "how she could act 
her natural, sweet self toward those who were 
hateful to her. She replied that she knew 
if people understood their relations to the uni- 
verse and to each other, they would choose 
the better part; and that she could not and 
would not obscure their vision by standing 
in the way of any light that might come to 
them. In other words, she simply doesn't 
recognize the hateful spirit at all. She puts 
it all out of mind, recognizing the mutual de- 
pendence of all upon each other, and their 
consequent duties toward each and all." 

Btttl&tits; tot £>t!)n# 

When a great building is to be erected, deep 
excavations are made, and piles of stones are 
[159] 



Cfje Oftforp of tfje Commonplace 



laid down in the darkness, only to be covered 
up and hidden out of sight by the imposing 
superstructure which rises high in the air. 
This foundation work receives no praise. It 
is not ever seen by any human eye. It ap- 
pears in a sense to be wasted work; yet we 
know that without it there would be no mas- 
sive buildings towering in majestic propor- 
tions in the air. So, many men's lives seem 
to be failures, while in reality they have been 
built into the foundations of great temples. 
Their work is covered up and hidden out of 
sight, and makes no show before the world; 
but without it those who come after them 
could not have achieved the success which 
makes their names bright. 

For a whole generation men are experi- 
menting in some way; for example, in elec- 
tricity. Some of them almost succeed. They 
seem to be on the very edge of achievement; 
but success persistently and narrowly eludes 
them, and they die at last, broken-hearted 
over their failure. Then a new man arises, 
and takes the results of their experiments as 
[ 160 ] 



a starting-point. He is successful, and all 
the world rings with his praises ; yet he never 
could have brought the invention to this tri- 
umphant issue but for the long, patient 
experimenting of those who went before him, 
toiling, sacrificing — failing. Nearly every 
great discovery or invention that has proven 
a boon to the world, had a long history of 
such effort and failure behind its final suc- 
cess. Who will say that the men who wrought 
thus so unselfishly in obscurity, and without 
result or reward, really failed? They did 
their part in preparing the way. Their work 
was essential in its place. Should they not 
share the songs of victory which the world 
sings for the man who at last brings the in- 
vention to triumphant completion? 

Once, a man, prospecting in the mining re- 
gions of Arizona, found a remarkable natural 
bridge. It spans a deep canon, forty-five feet 
in width. The bridge is made by a great 
agatized tree that lies across the gorge. 
Scientific men say that many ages since this 
tree was prostrated by some terrible storm, 
[161] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



and fell across the canon. By the effects of 
the water and of time, it has passed through 
many stages of mineralization, and is now a 
wonderful tree of solid agate. And there it 
lies, making an agate bridge over which men 
may pass from side to side. This tree seemed 
to be a failure when, that day in its prime, 
it was broken off by the storm and hurled to 
the ground. But, instead of being a failure, 
to what nobler use could it have been put 
than thus to become a bridge of agate, to 
stand for ages, and on which countless human 
feet may walk across the chasm? 

This fallen tree is an illustration of count- 
less human lives which have fallen and seemed 
to fail but which in time have proved to be 
bridges over which others can walk to honor, 
success and triumph. We are all daily pass- 
ing over bridges built of the toils, sacrifices, 
and failures of those who have gone before 
us. The luxury, ease, and comfort we now 
enjoy cost other men tears, pain, and loss. 
We cross continually to our blessings and 
privileges, our promised lands, our joys, on 
[ 162 ] 



a^urseltoes anb Others 



the bridges built for us by those who have 
failed. 

^tlpittQ to SDebelop flDtljerg 

A child had been playing in the garden, one 
day, and when she came in her mother said, 
"What have you been doing, my dear?" 
"Helping God, mother," said the little one. 
"How have you been helping God?" asked the 
mother. "I saw a flower going to blossom, 
and I blossomed it," answered the child. 
There are some people who think they are 
helping God when doing just what this child 
did. God does not want help in opening his 
buds and blossoming his roses. The buds 
must be opened and the roses blossomed in 
nature's gentle way, in God's way. To blos- 
som them before their time would be to ruin 
them. We need to be most careful in our 
culture of spiritual life in others, especially 
in children. Violence and forcing may do in- 
calculable harm. Many a child's life fails 
of its rarest beauty because its development 
[ 163 ] 



Cfje 43lorp of tfje Commonplace 



is hastened. Rosebuds want only air, sun- 
shine, and rain to bring out their beauty. 
The best thing we can do to develop spiritual 
life is to give an atmosphere of love and 
purity to those we seek to bless. 

lifer &tttet 

No crowns in heaven will be brighter than 
those shall wear who have lived out love's 
lesson in their own homes. Nearly every one 
has known some home, nearly all of whose 
light has come from one member of the house- 
hold. Frederick W. Robertson, referring to 
such a life, asks, "What was the secret of 
her power? What had she done? Abso- 
lutely nothing; but radiant smiles, beaming 
good humor, the tact of divining what every 
one wanted, told that she had got out of self 
and had learned to think of others; so that 
at one time it showed itself in deprecating the 
quarrel, which lowering brows and raised 
tones already showed to be impending, by 
sweet words ; at another by smoothing an in- 
[ 164] 



valid's pillow; at another by soothing a sob- 
bing child; at another by humoring and 
softening a father who had returned weary 
and ill-tempered from the irritating cares of 
business. None but her saw those things." 

A writer says of another, "His heart was as 
great as the world, but there was no room 
in it to hold the memory of a wrong." This 
is the true ideal for every Christian heart. 
We have it in the prayer which we are taught 
to oifer for forgiveness. While we ask God 
to forgive us, we declare to him that we have 
forgiven those who are indebted to us, those 
who have trespassed against us. We say to 
God that there is no bitterness, no spirit of 
unforgiveness, in our heart. 

It is said that one day, many years ago, 
there was an auction in London which was 
[165] 



Cfje 4£lorp of tfje Commonplace 



attended by distinguished people. Among 
other things offered for sale was a Cremona 
violin, more than a hundred years old. It 
was reputed to be a Stradivarius. The auc- 
tioneer raised the violin and held it gently, 
almost reverently, as he told its story and 
spoke of its wonderful qualities. Then he 
gave it to a musician who was present, ask- 
ing him to play upon it. The man played 
as well as he could, but the violin in his hands 
failed to win enthusiasm from the audience. 

The auctioneer began to call for bids. But 
the responses came slowly. Then there came 
into the room a stranger, an Italian. He 
pressed his way to the side of the auctioneer 
to see the violin. He took it into his own 
hands, examined it carefully, held it to his 
ear as if it had some secret to whisper to him, 
and then laid it gently on his breast and 
began to play upon it, and marvelous music 
at once filled the room. The people were 
strangely affected. Some smiled, some wept ; 
every heart was stirred. It was Paganini, 
the great master, whose fingers were on the 
[166] 



strings. When he laid the instrument down, 
the bidding began again, and there was no 
trouble now in selling it. In the hands of 
the first player, the qualities of the violin 
were not brought out, and men did not know 
a treasure was being offered to them. But 
in the hands of the great master its mar- 
velous powers were discovered and brought 
out. 

Our lives are like violins. In the right 
hands they will give forth wonderful music. 
But in unskillful hands their powers are not 
discovered. It is strange with what want of 
thought and care many people entrust their 
lives into the hands of those who cannot bring 
out the best that is in them ! Ofttimes of those 
who only do them harm. This is seen in the 
recklessness which many young people show 
in choosing their friends. Indeed, they do 
not choose their friends at all, but let them- 
selves drift into association and intimacy with 
any who come their way. 



[167] 



Cfje OMorp ot tfje Commonplace 



Eobe idtttti tljan #lm0 

Turgenieff in one of his little parables tells 
of meeting on the way a beggar, who held 
out his greasy hand for alms. Turgenieff 
searched all his pockets, but had no money, 
no food, nothing whatever, to give the man. 
He said to him, "I am sorry, brother, that 
I have nothing for thee." The beggar's face 
brightened, and he said, "That is enough. 
Thank you." To be called "brother" was 
better than any alms would have been. We 
may not give money to the mendicant on the 
street, but we may show him kindness, the 
spirit of brotherhood, and that will be worth 
more to him than the largest alms. It will 
gladden and cheer his heart, and bring to him 
a little of the warmth of the love of Christ. 



[168] 



VII 

helping bp lanaettfefmesfc 



helping hp ^nMftefcneSS 

Long ago, in quaint old Nuremberg, lived 
two boys, Albrecht Diirer and Franz Knig- 
stein. Both boys wished to be artists, and 
both studied and wrought with great earnest- 
ness. Albrecht had genius ; but Franz had 
only love for art, without the power to put 
on canvas the beautiful visions that haunted 
him. Years passed, and they planned to 
make each an etching of the Lord's Passion. 
When they compared their work, that of 
Franz was cold and lifeless, while Albrecht's 
was instinct with beauty and pathos. Then 
Franz saw it all, and knew that he could 
never be an artist. His heart was almost 
broken; but he said in a voice almost choked 
with tears, yet full of manly courage, "Franz, 
the good Lord gave me no such gift as yours ; 
but something, some homely duty, he has 
[171] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



waiting somewhere for me to do. Yet now 

— be you artist of Nuremberg, and I " 

"Stay, Franz, be still one moment," cried 
Albrecht, seizing his pencil. Franz supposed 
Albrecht was adding some finishing touches 
to his exquisite drawing, and waited patiently 
in his attitude of surrender, his hands folded 
together. With his swift pencil Albrecht 
drew a few lines and showed the sketch to 
his friend. 

"Why, those are only my hands," said 
Franz. "Why did you take them?" "I took 
them," said Albrecht, "as you stood there 
making the sad surrender of your life so very 
bravely. I said to myself, 'Those hands that 
may never paint a picture can now most cer- 
tainly make one.' I have faith in those folded 
hands, my brother-friend. They will go to 
men's hearts in the days to come." 

Albrecht's words were true prophecy. Into 
the world of love and duty has gone the story 
so touching and helpful in its beautiful sim- 
plicity; and into the world of art has gone 
the picture — for Albrecht Diirer's famous 
[ 172] 



helping bp EnselfisfmeftS 



"Folded Hands" is but a picture of the hands 
of Franz Knigstein as they were folded that 
day in sweet, brave resignation, when he gave 
up his heart's dearest wish, and yet believed 
that the Lord had some homely duty still 
worth his doing. 

This charming story tells us that if we can- 
not do the beautiful things we see others 
doing for Christ and which we long to do, 
we can at least do some lowly work for him. 
It teaches us, too, that self-surrender to God, 
though our heart's fondest hope is laid down, 
is, in God's sight, really the most beautiful 
thing we can do with our life. It teaches us 
also, that the hands which can do no brilliant 
thing for God, may yet become hands of 
benediction in the world. If we are truly 
fellow-workers with God, he can use whatever 
we have that we really surrender to him. And 
ofttimes he can do more with our failures 
than with our successes. 



[178] 



^fje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



(BMrtQ ^imgelt to jFrienti 

One of the magazines told the story of the 
way a young man gave himself. He was 
poor, and had a great desire to get an edu- 
cation and become a lawyer. He saved 
enough money by hard work to carry him 
through college in a self-denying way. In 
his first year he made a friend, a young man, 
brilliant, and noble as well, who also had all 
the money he needed. The two were room- 
mates and became close personal friends, in 
spite of their difference in position. During 
the first summer vacation, the father of the 
well-to-do boy died, leaving his son no money, 
however, to continue his course. The young 
man wrote to his friend and told him he could 
not return to college, and that he must aban- 
don his dream of obtaining an education and 
go to work. The friend wrote to him about 
in this way : "You have fine capacity and will 
make a useful man if you have education. I 
have found out that I would make only a 
fourth-rate lawyer at best. It would be far 
[174] 



helping bp WLn&tlti£!t)Vit£si 

better for you to be educated than for me. 
I have money enough saved to carry you 
through college. You must take my money 
and complete your course. I enclose a draft 
for the amount. I will drop out of sight alto- 
gether and lose myself. Do not try to find 
me — it will be of no use. Do not refuse the 
money — you can never return it to me." 
That was self-denial of the noblest kind. 

i^oto (BtmtSLl ifotoatti jfotgot &rft 

During General Sherman's last campaign 
in the South, in the American Civil War, 
certain changes in commanders were made. 
General Howard was placed at the head of a 
special division. Soon after this the war 
closed and there was to be a grand review 
of the army at Washington. The night be- 
fore the review, Sherman sent for Howard 
and said: "The political friends of the officer 
you succeeded are determined that he shall 
[175] 



Qti)t OSIorp of tlje Commonplace 



ride at the head of the corps, and I want you 
to help me out." 

"It is my command," said Howard, "and 
I am entitled to ride at its head." 

"Of course you are," replied Sherman. 
"You led the men through Georgia and the 
Carolinas ; but, Howard, you are a Christian, 
and can stand the disappointment." 

"If you put it on that ground," said 
Howard, "there is but one answer. Let him 
ride at the head of the corps." 

"Yes, let him have the honor," said Sher- 
man, "but you will report to me at nine 
o'clock, and will ride by my side at the head 
of the army." 

Howard protested, but his commander's 
orders were positive. So, that day, in the 
grand review, the man who had yielded his 
rights had a place of higher honor at the 
head of the whole army. It is ever thus — 
the meek inherit the earth; those who for- 
get themselves and serve without striving for 
place, in the end receive the truest honor 
before both God and man. 

[ 176] 



helping bp Engelffefmesa 



75e an (Cncoutaget 

They tell us in mountain regions that ava- 
lanches are ofttimes hanging poised so deli- 
cately on the crags that even the reverbera- 
tion of a whisper on the air may cause them 
to fall with ruinous effect upon the homes 
and villages in the valleys. The guides cau- 
tion tourists at certain points not to speak 
or sing, lest they cause disaster. There are 
human lives bearing such burdens of sorrow 
and trouble that, one disheartening word may 
bring them despair. We should learn never 
to give discouragement. It is a crime against 
humanity. Beware* that you never speak dis- 
hearteningly to any one. Only love can save 
the world. No matter how the person may 
have sinned, only gentleness can save him. 

A newspaper writer makes the suggestion 
that for men like himself some kind of league 
should be formed by which those who join 
should bind themselves to say some kind word 
or do some kind act daily. The editor sug- 
gests, however, that only one kindness daily 
[177] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



is too formal, and altogether too meager. 
There is need for kindness not once a day 
to one person, but a thousand times a day, 
to a thousand persons. There is need for 
cheer continually. If you can truly say, "I 
believe God," you cannot but be an en- 
courager. God himself is a God of cheer. 
Religion is simply love and kindness. Wash- 
ington Gladden says that "religion is friend- 
ship — friendship first with the great Com- 
panion, on the Godward side. Then on the 
manward side the same is true." To be friends 
with everybody ; to fill every human relation 
with the spirit of friendship; is there any- 
thing more than this that the wisest and best 
of men ,can hope to do ? 

In almost every community there is one who 
is intellectually weak, a foolish boy or man, 
or a girl or woman who lacks ability to take 
her place among her sisters. Sometimes such 
a person is made the sport of neighbors, of 
[178] 



helping hp Engelttefmesa 



those who are bright and talented, laughed 
at, even treated rudely, cruelly. It is a piti- 
ful sight to see one who is feeble-minded, 
who has not wit enough to take his place 
among others. It is pathetic to see one buf- 
feted and abused by those to whom God has 
given good mental abilities. It is beautiful 
to see a bright, manly boy become the cham- 
pion and friend of another boy who is almost 
imbecile, protecting him from the sport of 
others. It is told of Edward Eggleston that 
in his boyhood he and his companions were 
forming a literary society. The membership 
they determined should include only the best 
boys and young men in the place. None who 
were undesirable should be admitted. There 
was one boy in the neighborhood who was 
mentally deficient, who greatly desired to join 
the society, that he might learn to "speak 
pieces," he said. Most of the boys laughed 
at the suggestion that he should be admitted. 
But young Eggleston, with a manly earnest- 
ness, favored receiving him. "We have no 
right," he said, "to keep all our good things 
[ 179] 



Cfje 45lorp of tfje Commonplace 



to ourselves. This poor boy will do us no 
harm, and it will please him and it may do 
him good. He pleaded for the boy so ear- 
nestly that he was admitted. It made him 
very happy, and he became fairly bright. 

This was a Christly thing to do. Jesus 
would have treated the boy just as Edward 
Eggleston did. He never broke even a 
bruised reed, so loving was he toward the 
weak. We should seek to get the lesson into 
all our conduct. If there is a bashful girl 
in the neighborhood, or a shy, retiring boy, 
these are the ones to whom Jesus would have 
the young people show the greatest attention 
in their social life. Those for whom most 
persons do not care are the ones for whom 
Jesus would care most tenderly if he were 
here. Those who need the most help are the 
ones Jesus himself helps the most. 

" 'All honor to him who wins the prize f 

The world has cried for a hundred years ; 
But to him who tries and fails and dies, 
I give great glory and honor and tears." 



[180] 



helping bp llnselftstfme&s 



<H$t 2Dtit# of pasting £DtS*tgi 

The Duchess of Kent was a richly endowed 
woman and was universally beloved. Once 
the Princess Alice, herself simple, sweet and 
unspoiled, asked her: "What makes every 
one love to be with you? I am always so 
sorry to have to leave you, and so are all the 
others who come here. What is the secret, 
grandmamma ?" 

It was not easy for the noble woman to an- 
swer such a personal question. But it was 
important that it should be answered for the 
sake of her who had asked and who was in- 
deed hungry to know the secret. So the noble 
lady gave this memorable answer: 

"I was early instructed that the way to 
make people happy was to appear interested 
in the things that interested them, namely, 
their own affairs; and that this could be ac- 
complished only by burying one's own grief, 
annoyance, satisfaction, or joy completely 
out of sight. Forgetfulness of one's own 
concerns, my dear, a smiling face, a word 
[181] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



cf sympathy or unselfish help, where it is 
possible to give it, will always make others 
happy, and the giver equally so." 

^Je Eobe tfiat jporgete &elt 

A child had a beautiful canary bird. From 
morning till night it sang, and its song filled 
all the house. But the child's mother was 
ill — so ill that even the singing of the bird, 
which to the boy was such delicious music, 
disturbed and distressed her. He put it into 
a part of the house as far away as possible 
from the sick-room, thinking that the sound 
could not reach the mother's ears. But the 
shrill singing still came into the room, and 
pained the weak invalid. 

One morning, as the child stood holding 
his mother's hand, the bird began to sing, 
and the notes came into the chamber very 
faintly; and yet as he watched the sufferer's 
face, he saw an expression of pain sweep over 
it. She said nothing, but the boy needed no 
words to tell him that the bird's singing was 
[ 182 ] 



helping bp Mngelffefmeaa 



distressing her. "It is no music to me," he 
said, "if it pains my mother." So he took 
the cage, and, carrying it away, gave the 
bird to a friend. "But you loved the bird," 
his mother said, when she learned what he 
had done. "Yes," he replied ; "but I love you 
more." 

We should repress in ourselves the tastes 
which are not agreeable to our friends. We 
should cut off the habits which hurt the sen- 
sitive hearts whose happiness is dear to us. 
We should put away the things in us, what- 
ever the cost may be, which give pain to our 
loved ones. 

l£oto to prebent &tzitt 

There is a story of two monks who had 
never quarreled. They began to think their 
life monotonous, and one of them suggested 
that they quarrel. "Well, what shall we 
quarrel about?" "About this stone," was the 
answer. "You say it is yours and I'll say 
it is mine." "This stone belongs to me," said 
[183] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



the first. "Very well — you may have it," was 
the reply. 

Christians should always be ready to yield 
their own preferences to prevent strife. 
"Blessed are the peacemakers." 

Helping flDtj^tg <3Dut of Mn 

During a great flood in the Mississippi, 
which threatened the destruction of the city 
of New Orleans, two men stood on the levee, 
watching the rising waters. One asked the 
other, "If you had the strength and the 
money to use at will, what would you do for 
your city?" Not having thought of the mat- 
ter in this definite way, the gentleman re- 
ferred the question back to his friend, "What 
would you do?" "I would build these dykes 
so wide and so high," he answered, "that no 
flood could ever endanger the city again. 
That would be the finest thing any man could 
do for New Orleans." The other thought a 
moment and then said, "I would not do that. 
If I were able I would get my arm beneath 
[184] 



helping tip Mnseltfetmesa 



the city, and lift it so high that no flood 
could ever endanger it again." 

Christ was sent not to build sheltering 
walls round men, to shut off danger from 
them — for then they never could grow strong 
— but to put into their hearts new life, new 
courage, new hope, new strength, so as to 
lift them beyond the reach of the world's evil. 
That is the best, too, that we can do for 
others. We cannot destroy sin nor shut it 
away by dykes so that it will no more assail, 
but we can help to make men whom sin can- 
not reach. 

Shafting l&ottg!) patfjg ^mootf) 

There is a beautiful legend which tells how, 
long centuries ago, in a somber forest, some 
moss began to grow. The sunshine warmed 
it, and it spread it until it formed a soft, rich 
carpet of bright hue. One day, Jesus, com- 
ing out of the wilderness, passed through this 
old forest, with feet torn and bleeding from 
the rough way by which he had come. His 
[185] 



Cfje <JMorp of tfje Commonplace 



path led over this carpet of moss ; and as his 
bruised and weary feet walked on it they were 
soothed, refreshed, and rested by the gentle 
softness. Grateful for the comfort which he 
had received, Jesus, from his loving heart, 
uttered words which made the moss holy for 
all time: "Thou shalt be blessed forever, o'er 
every plant that grows." Then forth from 
the green bosom of the moss there sprang a 
perfect rose. 

This is only a legend; but in its perfect 
beauty we can get a sweet lesson — that the 
Christ honors always and everywhere the gen- 
* tie thoughtfulness which makes the way easier 
for any tired one. We are in this world to 
bless others. If we can spread a carpet of 
moss for any bruised or weary feet, we are 
sure of the benediction of the Christ. Such 
sweet ministry we can render every day. 
Evermore Jesus is passing in the persons of 
his little ones. The paths are rough, and feet 
bleed as they walk over them. He who lives 
to give cheer and hope and strength will re- 
ceive the Master's blessing. 

[186] 



helping tip Enselftstfjnesa 



Just after the death of Queen Victoria this 
beautiful story was told : She was visiting the 
wounded soldiers who had been brought back 
from South Africa. She was specially dis- 
tressed by the suffering of one man who had 
been terribly hurt. 

"Is there nothing that I can do for you?" 
asked the Queen. 

The soldier replied, "Nothing, your Maj- 
esty, unless you would thank my nurse for 
her kindness to me." 

The Queen turned to the nurse, and said, 
with tears in her eyes, "I do thank you with 
all my heart for your kindness to this poor 
wounded son of mine." 

There was something exquisitely beautiful 
in the soldier's unselfish thought of the nurse 
who had been such a comfort to him in his 
sufferings. His gratitude was so great that 
he sought even the Queen's honoring rather 
for her than for himself. 



[187] 



VIII 



piping SDi^coutageti 

One summer afternoon, during the Civil War 
in America, some Southern generals were sit- 
ting under a tree, when suddenly a shell from 
a Northern battery crashed over their heads. 
The officers hastened to seek a safer place. 
But one of the party lingered ; and the others, 
glancing around, saw him stooping to the 
ground, as if he had found something of 
great value. The crashing of the shell 
through the branches had torn a bird's nest 
from its place, and hurled it to the ground. 
And the general of armies was gathering up 
this nest, with its sacred burden of young 
bird-life, to replace it among the branches. 

It is the business of the friends of Jesus to 
put fresh hope into the discouraged hearts 
of husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, 
[191] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



and thus be the hand to help restore the home 
to its true place, amid the branches of the 
tree of love. 

jfigfitfnff for jflDttc flDton 

Every man worthy the name will fight to the 
death for his home. And this motive is al- 
ways present when we are defending the 
right. We must seek the purity and the 
safety of the town in which we live, because 
our family is in it, and peril to the popula- 
tion is peril to them. We must seek a whole- 
some water supply, good drainage, and clean 
streets, because our children and friends live 
in the city. So in all movements for educa- 
tion, reform, and religion, there is the same 
motive. A distinguished man was speaking 
at the opening of a reformatory institution 
for boys, and remarked that if only one boy 
was saved by it, it would repay all the cost. 
After the exercises a friend asked the speaker 
if he had not put it a little too strongly when 
he said that the cost of founding the institu- 
[192] 



tion would be repaid if only one boy were 
saved. "Not if he were my boy," was the 
answer. 

€>ne Cute tor <Htm$tz 

Hasty temper is so common that people do 
not think much of it. We talk about it as a 
kind of harmless weakness, so common as to 
be almost permissible. Men apologize for 
their friends who are bad-tempered, as if it 
made little difference. But really it is a 
serious blemish on one's character. Think of 
the hurt an ungoverned temper produces in 
homes where angry words fly like arrows, 
wounding gentle hearts. Think how an ill- 
tempered father or mother hurts the lives of 
children. The time to get a sweet temper is 
in youth. We have no right to say a harsh 
word anywhere, especially in our own home. It 
was the custom of the Cary sisters that when 
one of them felt out of sorts, moody, or ill- 
tempered, she would go away by herself un- 
til the ugly mood had passed off. This would 
[193] 



Cfje OSIorp of ti)t Commonplace 



be a good rule to adopt in every house. In 
place of sulking or showing sullenness, when 
we feel this miserable demon getting posses- 
sion of us, we had better go away and fight 
the battle out alone where our harsh speecH 
will hurt no other one. 

ZoW$ i&t&t at ^ome 

The story of friendship anywhere is a story 
of cost and suffering, but it is in the home that 
it must suffer the most, make the greatest 
sacrifices. When husband and wife clasp 
hands at the marriage altar, they can fulfill 
their covenant of love only by mutual lov- 
ing unto death. It may cost either of them 
a great deal to love as they have promised to 
do, until death separates them. Here is 
a man who loves his wife with a devoted affec- 
tion. For ten years she has been a helpless 
invalid, and he has carried her from the bed 
to the chair, and up and down stairs, and has 
ministered to her in a most beautiful way, 
[ 194] 



failing in nothing that she needed or craved, 
pouring out his life's best treasures to give 
her comfort or pleasure. This is ideal. So 
it should be in all the home relations. Love 
that stops at no cost, at no sacrifice, should 
be the law of the home life. 

It should be the same with all the qualities 
of love. We are to exercise patience with 
every person we may meet, in all the rela- 
tions of life, but we should show the sweet- 
est and most Christlike patience in our own 
homes. Kindness is the great law of Chris- 
tian life. It should be the universal law. We 
should be kind to every one, not only to those 
who treat us with love, but also to those who 
are ungentle to us, returning to them love 
for hate. But in our own home and toward 
our own, our kindness should not only be un- 
varying, but be always exceptionally tender. 

A writer suggests that members of a fam- 
ily, when they separate for the night or even 
for the briefest stay, should never part in 
any but an affectionate way, lest they shall 
never meet again. Two incidents illustrate 
[195] 



Cfje 4$lovv of tfje Commonplace 



the importance of this rule. A distinguished 
man, when much past middle life, related an 
experience which occurred in his own home 
in his young manhood. At the breakfast 
table one morning he and a younger brother 
had a sharp quarrel about some unimportant 
matter. He confessed that he was most un- 
brotherly in his words, speaking with bitter- 
ness. The brother rose and left the table 
and went to his business, very angry. Before 
noon the younger man died suddenly in his 
office. When, twenty years afterward, the 
older brother spoke of the occurrence, he said 
that it had cast a shadow over all his life. He 
could never forgive himself for his part in 
the bitter quarrel. He had never ceased to 
regret with sore pain that no opportunity 
had come to him to confess his fault and seek 
forgiveness and reconciliation. 

The other incident was of the parting of 
a workingman and his wife. He was going 
forth to his day's duties and there was a pe- 
culiar tenderness in his mood and in their 
good-by that morning. He and his wife had 
[196] 



their prayer together after breakfast. Then 
he kissed the babies, sleeping in their cribs, 
and returned a second time to look into their 
sweet faces. The parting at the door never 
had been so tender as it was that morning. 
Before half the day was gone the men brought 
him home dead. The wife got great comfort 
in her sorrow from the memory of the morn- 
ing's parting. If their last words together 
had been marked by unkindness, by wrang- 
ling, or even by indifference, or lack of ten- 
derness, her grief would have been harder 
to bear. But the lovingness of the last part- 
ing took away much of the bitterness of the 
sorrow. 

If we keep ourselves ever mindful of the 
criticalness of life, that any day may be the 
last in our home fellowships, it will do much 
to make us gentle and kind to each other. We 
will not act selfishly any hour, for it may be 
our last hour together. We will not let strife 
mar the good cheer of our home life any day, 
for we may not have another day. 



[197] 



Cfje 05Iorp of tfje Commonplace 



Hfonu €ouitt$ie$ 

A young girl boarded with an elderly woman, 
who took a maternal interest in her. One 
evening the young girl had been out rather 
late and a fine young man brought her home. 
The boarding-house woman asked the girl 
who the 3 r oung man was. "He is my brother," 
replied the young woman. "Your brother!" 
exclaimed the somewhat cynical old lady, in a 
rather doubting tone. "Why, I saw him 
raise his hat to you as he went away." The 
courtesy seemed to be to the older woman im- 
possible in a girl's own brother. Is it so? Do 
brothers not 'usually practice good manners 
toward their sisters ? Every young man with 
even the smallest pretensions to gentlemanli- 
ness will take off his hat to any other young 
man's sister. Does he not also to his own? 

A young man entered a reception-room 
with his wife. He carelessly stepped on her 
gown and stumbled. "Mary," he said im- 
patiently, "I wish you would either hold your 
dresses up, or have them made short." The 
[ 198 ] 



wife said nothing for a mcment, and then she 
asked very pleasantly, "Charles, if it had 
been some other woman whose dress you had 
stepped on, what would you have said?" The 
young man was honest with himself. He 
bowed and said frankly, "I should have apol- 
ogized for my awkwardness, and I do now 
most humbly apologize to you, my dear. I 
am truly ashamed of myself." 

pieagtno; dffofc in fyt Common OTjingg 

When we seek to do the things that are 
above, where Christ is, most of us find the 
bulk of our occupation in common tasks and 
duties. To-morrow we shall have to rise early 
and go to our business, and there will be no 
dishonor, no irreverence in our most diligent 
devotion to these common tasks and occupa- 
tions. We may please our Master just as 
well in these things that are given to us to 
do, as we please him on Sunday in specific 
acts of worship. 

[ 199] 



Cfje 45lorp of tfje Commonplace 



A mother among the very poor died and 
left a little daughter with, a heritage of love 
and sacrifice. She bade her to be kind to her 
father, who was a drunkard. She would often 
be abused by him, when he came home at 
night, but she was always to be patient and 
gentle with him. "Remember it's all the 
drink." The younger children were also 
confided to her keeping and she was to do 
all she could for their comfort. She was won- 
drously loving and kind, living the lesson of 
love so beautifully that heaven must have 
looked down with approval upon her sweet 
life. But she never could go to church or 
to Sunday school. There were some godly 
people who tried to get her to the mission, 
and they told her that Christ would not be 
pleased with her unless she would attend the 
services. Mary was frightened and feared 
that she should not be saved, for the care of 
the children and her drunken father gave her 
no time for anything else. 

When the heated season came Mary took 
the fever. Her body had been weakened by 
[ 200 ] 



the care and toil, and she was unable to en- 
dure. She grew worse and worse, and the 
doctor said she could not live. One day Mary 
sent for the playmate who lived across the 
street and said, "The charity doctor has been 
here, Katie. He says I'll never be any better. 
If it wasn't for one thing I'm sure I'd just 
be glad. You know how it's been here, Katie 
— I've had so much to do I couldn't mind the 
children and go to the preaching, too. And 
I've been so tired at night I couldn't think 
to pray. And now, when I see the dear Lord 
Jesus, what can I say?" Then Katie, the little 
comforter, her help to the problem brought; 
into the heart made wise by love, the Spirit 
sent this thought: "I wouldn't say a word, 
dear, for well he understands. I would never 
say a word at all. But, Mary, just show him 
your hands." That was enough. The hands 
that had wrought so faithfully would tell the 
whole story. 



[201 ] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



We do not realize what the daily life of the 
home means in the future of the children. 
Example is most important. One said to a 
minister: "The memory of my father is a 
sacred influence to me; yet I can remember 
the day when I was hungry because of my 
father's conduct. I can remember my mother 
crying as she cut the last loaf, keeping none 
for herself, and gave us what there was." 

The father had been turned away from his 
business for refusing to do a mean and 
shabby thing. They gave him three days to 
think it over, and then he came home with no 
prospects and no money. The mother said to 
her children, "It breaks my heart to see you 
hungry, but I will tell you what kind of man 
your father is," and she told them. 

The son, far on in his years, testified: 
"Many a time have I been tempted to do 
wrong, and then there arose before me the 
figure of the man who dared even to see his 
children suffer before he would sully his own 
[ 202 ] 



conscience and sin against God." And this 
recollection restrained him and kept him true. 
It is a great thing for a boy to have such 
memories of his father as that. 

A good man tells of what happened in his own 
childhood home over and over again. As he 
lay quietly at night in his little room, before 
sleep came on there would be a gentle footstep 
on the stairs, the door would open noiselessly, 
and in a moment the well-known form, softly 
gliding through the darkness, would appear 
at his bedside. First, there would be a few 
gentle inquiries of affection, gradually deep- 
ening into words of counsel. Then kneeling, 
her head touching his, the mother would be- 
gin in gentle words to pray for her boy, pour- 
ing forth her whole soul in desires and suppli- 
cations. Mothers know how her pleadings 
would run, and how the tears would mingle 
with the words. "I seem to feel them yet," 
[ 203 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



he writes in advanced years, "where some- 
times they fell on my face. Rising, then, with 
a good-night kiss, she was gone. The prayers 
often passed out of thought in slumber, and 
came not to mind again for years, but they 
were not lost. They were safely kept in some 
most sacred place of memory, for they re- 
appear now with a beauty brighter than ever. 
I willingly believe that they were an invisible 
bond with heaven, that secretly preserved me 
while I moved carelessly amid numberless 
temptations and walked the brink of crime." 

9$tmoiic& of ffomt 

Daniel Webster, referring to the early 
home of his parents in a log cabin, built amid 
the snowdrifts of New Hampshire, "at a 
period so early that, when the smoke rose first 
from its rude chimney and curled itself over 
the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence 
of a white man's habitation between it and the 
settlements on the rivers of Canada," uttered 
[ 204 ] 



i 

these noble words concerning this rude cabin : 
"Its remains still exist. I make it an annual 
visit. I carry my children to it, to teach 
them the hardships endured by the genera- 
tions which have gone before them. I love to 
dwell on the tender recollections, the kindred 
ties, the early affections, and the touching 
narratives and incidents which mingle with all 
that I know of the primitive family abode. I 
weep to think that none of those who inhab- 
ited it are now among the living ; and if ever 
I am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail in affec- 
tionate veneration for him who reared it, and 
defended it against savage violence and de- 
struction, cherished all the domestic virtues 
beneath its roof, and, through the fire and 
blood of a seven years' Revolutionary War, 
shrank from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, 
to save his country, and to raise his children 
to a condition better than his own, may my 
name, and the names of my posterity, be 
blotted forever from the memory of mankind." 



[ 205 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



grayer in tyt l£ome 

Archdeacon Farrar says of his mother: 
"My mother's habit was, every day, immedi- 
ately after breakfast, to withdraw for an hour 
to her own room, and to spend that hour in 
reading the Bible, in meditation and in prayer. 
From that hour, as from a pure fountain, she 
drew the strength and the sweetness which 
enabled her to fulfill all her duties, and to re- 
main unruffled by all the worries and petti- 
nesses which are so often the intolerable trial 
of narrow neighborhoods. As I think of her 
life, and of all it had to bear, I see the abso- 
lute triumph of Christian grace in the lovely 
ideal of a Christian lady. I never saw her 
temper disturbed; I never heard her speak 
one word of anger, or of calumny, or of idle 
gossip. I never observed in her any sign of 
a single sentiment unbecoming to a soul which 
had drank of the river of the water of life, 
and which had fed upon manna in the barren 
wilderness. The world is better for the pas- 
sage of such souls across its surface. They 
[ 206 ] 



ifome Herons 

may seem to be as much forgotten as the 
drops of rain which fall into the barren sea, 
but each raindrop adds to the volume of re- 
freshful and purifying waters. 'The healing 
of the world is in its nameless saints. A sin- 
gle star seems nothing, but a thousand scat- 
tered stars break up the night and make it 
beautiful.' " 

A good man said that the evening family 
worship had saved his home and its love. The 
days were full of little frictions and irrita- 
tions. He was a man of quick temper and 
hasty speech, and often was the home music 
jangled. The close of the day was unhappy. 
But the evening prayer set all things right 
again. The father and mother knelt, side 
by side, with their little children, and as they 
prayed, "Forgive us our debts, as we forgive 
our debtors," they were drawn close together 
again in love. The little strifes were healed, 
and their wedded joy saved. The sun was 
[ 207 ] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



not allowed to go down upon their differences. 
This is one of the blessings of family prayer. 
Christ comes and appears to us alive beside 
the sacred home altar and shows us his hands 
and speaks his word of peace. 

IBtoom tot tyt Ifeatenty d&utgt 

A little Welsh girl went into a worldly home 
as a servant. All her life she had been used, 
in her own home, to godly ways — family 
prayers, grace at meals, reverence for God, 
love, kindness. In this home where she was 
employed, all this was wanting. There was 
no prayer, no reverence, no love — instead 
there was profanity, bitterness, strife, heaven- 
daring sin. After one night, the little maid 
told her mistress that she could not stay — 
she was afraid to stay where God was not a 
guest. If we would keep the heavenly Guest 
in our heart, we must make a home of love 
there for him, with an atmosphere kindly and 
congenial. In a prayerless, loveless heart 
the heavenly Guest will not stay. 

[ 208 ] 



Several years since, in one of the magazines, 
was this suggestive story: 

Once there was a woman who loved a man. 
He died, and she sought some way to reach 
him where he was, and could not. Then a 
heavenly messenger came to her and said: 
"I have been sent to help thee, for thy cry- 
ing has been heard. What is thy need?" 

The woman answered: "That I may find 
the soul of my husband, who is dead." 

The Shining One said to her: "That may 
be done only if there is a bond between you 
that death could not break." 

She said: "Surely there is a bond. I have 
lain in his bosom. I have borne the sacred 
name of wife." 

But the angel shook his head and said: 
"That is no bond." 

Then she raised her head proudly and 
said: "Surely there is a bond. I have held 
his children in my arms ; with their innocence 
have they bound us together. By the sorrow 
[ 209 ] 



Cfje <JMorp of tfje Commonplace 



in which I bore them there is an enduring 
bond." But the angel said, very sadly: 
"Even this will not suffice." 

Then the woman paled, but she said : "My 
spirit and that of my husband were one. In 
naught were we separate. Each answered each 
without speech. We were one. Does not 
that bond hold?" 

But the angel answered very low: "It does 
not hold. In the domain of death all these 
bonds of which thou speakest crumble to 
nothing. The very shape of them has de- 
parted, so that they are as if they never were. 
Think yet once more, I pray thee, before I 
leave thee, if there is one thread to bind thee 
to him whom thou lovest ; for if not, he has 
passed from thee forever." 

The woman was silent, but she cried to 
herself desperately: "He shall not go from 
me!" The angel withdrew a little way, and 
the woman thought and thought, with deep 
inward communing. Finally, she raised her 
face and said : "Once — but it was long ago — 
he and I thought of God together." 

[ 210 ] 



The angel gave a loud cry, and his shining 
wings smote the earth, and he said: "Thou 
hast found the bond. Thou hast found the 
bond." 

The woman looked, and lo ! there lay in her 
hand a tiny thread, faintly golden, as if 
woven from the strands of the sunlight, and 
it led into the darkness. 

Only those who think of God together have 
between them a bond of union which death 
cannot sever. The only tie which never shall 
be broken is love for Christ. Those whom 
this sacred bond unites never shall be sep- 
arated. If this love is not in us, there is noth- 
ing in our lives which will endure; all else 
will perish. 

A Christian who had long been engaged in 
useful service tells of a visit to his old child- 
hood home. He was put to sleep in the spare 
room. He opened a closet door, and a scene 
was before him which brought a rush of tears 
[211 ] 



Cije <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



to his eyes An old chair stood there, and 
before it lay a cushion in which were knee- 
prints. Evidently this was some one's closet 
of prayer. Instantly the truth flashed upon 
him. He was looking into the secret sanctuary 
of his beloved mother, where she had prayed 
all her children into the kingdom of Christ. 
I saw now the place where the grace was in- 
voked by intercession which had brought the 
power of Christ into his own heart. What 
a holy place it was ! 

What would be the result if every Chris- 
tian home in the world had such a holy of 
holies, its old chair daily wet with tears of 
love, and its cushion deeply indented by sup- 
pliant knees? 



[ 212 ] 



IX 

Utfc among tfre TLoMv 



( 



Htfe among tfje Hotolp 

* 

3fn tfie fumble piac* 

It is easier to work amidst cheers and huzzas 
than in obscurity, where one never heard a 
commendation. A writer says, "One test of 
the religious life is in its willingness to oc- 
cupy a subordinate place and to work faith- 
fully in it." The story is told of a young 
man who was president of a young people's 
organization, and who greatly liked promi- 
nence. He had a genius for keeping always 
in the limelight. As long as he could lead and 
be prominent he was happy, cheerful, enthu- 
siastic and interested. But when he was not 
in some conspicuous position he was not a 
comfortable man to get along with. One of 
his friends described and characterized him 
thus : "He has plenty of religion to lead, but 
not enough to follow." There are always 
[215] 



Cfje <®lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



good people of this type. They work splen- 
didly when they are in a conspicuous place, 
with others under them, but when they are 
second or down somewhere in the common 
ranks, they are of little use. It takes more 
grace to shine in the lowly places than in 
places of prominence. 

A tender and beautiful story of lowly faith- 
fulness is told. It was on one of the Orkney 
Islands where a great rock — Lonely Rock — 
dangerous to vessels, juts out into the sea. In 
a fisherman's hut on this island coast, one 
night long ago, sat a young girl, busy at her 
spinning wheel, looking out upon the dark 
and driving clouds. All night she toiled and 
watched, and when morning came, one fish- 
ing-boat, her father's, was missing. Half a 
mile from the cottage her father's body was 
found, washed upon the shore. His boat had 
been wrecked on Lonely Rock. 

The girl watched her father's body after 
[216] 



Htfe among tfje Hotolp 



the manner of her people, till it was laid in 
the grave. Then when night came she arose 
and set the candle in her casement, that the 
fishermen out on the waves might see. All 
night long she sat in the little room spinning, 
trimming the candle when its light grew dim. 
After that, in the wild storms of winter, in 
the quiet calm of summer, through driving 
mists, illusive moonlight, and solemn darkness, 
that coast was never one night without the 
light of that one little candle. As many hanks 
of yarn as she had spun before for her daily 
bread she spun still, and one more, to pay 
for her nightly candle. The men on the sea, 
however far out they had gone, were always 
sure of seeing that quiet light shining to give 
them safe guidance. Who can tell how many 
hearts were cheered and lives saved from peril 
and death by that tiny flame which love and 
devotion and self-sacrifice kept there through 
the long years? 

This is but a leaf out of the story of mil- 
lions of faithful lives that yet go unpraised 
among men. The things they do are not the 
[217] 



Cfje O&orp of tfje Commonplace 



same in all, but the spirit is the same. These 
humble ones keep the light of love burning 
where it guides and cheers and blesses others. 
By the simple beauty of their own lives, by 
their quiet deeds of self-sacrifice, by the songs 
of their cheerful faith, and by the ministries 
of their hopeful hands, they make one little 
spot of this sad earth brighter and happier. 

<&f)e (Blaty of tje €ommon JLite 

To many people life is all a dreary common- 
place. Some see nothing beautiful in nature. 
They will walk through the loveliest gardens 
and see nothing to admire. They will move 
among people and never observe in them any 
glimpses of immortality, any revealings of 
the divine nature. They will go through all 
the years and never see God in anything. It 
would give us a radiant world in nature if 
our eyes were opened to see the splendor that 
is in every tree, plant, and flower. 

An artist was painting a picture which he 
[218] 



Htfe among tfje Hotolp 



hoped might be honored in the Academy. It 
was of a woman, struggling up a street, on 
a wild, stormy night, carrying her baby in 
her arms. Doors were shut in her face. No- 
where was there warmth, sympathy, or love 
for her. The artist called the picture "Home- 
less." As he was painting it, imagination 
filled his soul with divine pity. "Why do I 
not go to lost people themselves, to try to 
save them, instead of merely painting pic- 
tures of them?" he began to ask. The com- 
mon bush burned with fire. Under the im- 
pulse of the new feeling he gave himself to 
Christ and to the Christian ministry. He 
went to Africa as a missionary, devoting his 
life to the saving of the lowest lost. If we 
had eyes touched by divine anointing, we 
should see in every outcast, in every most de- 
praved life, the gleaming of every possible 
glory. 

Many of the best people in the world are 
lowly and obscure. They have no shining 
qualities, no brilliant gifts. Yet if we could 
see them as they really are, we would find the 
[219] 



Cfje Oftforp of tfje Commonplace 



thorn bush burning with fire. They are full 
of God. Christ lives in them. There is a 
story of a Christian Italian who works with 
pick and shovel, walking two miles every 
morning to his task. He lives on the plainest 
food. Yet he is the happiest man in all the 
neighborhood. He has a secret which keeps 
him happy in all his toil and pinching. Away 
in Italy he has a wife and two children, and 
he is working and saving to bring them to 
America, where he is building a home for 
them. His lowly thorn bush of hardness and 
poverty is aflame with the fire of love. 

Bringing Iftabtn SDoton 

The test of life to which most of us are called 
during the week will not be in conspicuous 
things which people will talk about, but in 
the little common things of the common days. 
Charles Wagner tells us, that, instead of liv- 
ing among the stars, we would better learn to 
love the flowers that grow at our feet. A 
[ 220] 



Htfe among tfje Hotolp 



heavenly vision which we cannot bring down 
into our common every-day life means very 
little to us. In one of Murillo's pictures we 
see the interior of a convent kitchen. Instead, 
however, of mortals in working dress, we see 
angels in white garments at the lowly work. 
One is putting the kettle on the fire, another 
is lifting a pail of water, another is at the 
dresser, reaching up for the dishes. Then 
there is a little cherub wanting to help, but 
continually getting in the way of the others 
and hindering them. The artist means that 
we may bring heaven down into all the lowly 
ways of earth, and that even kitchen service 
may be made as heavenly as work of angels 
in heaven. 

W&t &tiWtz of tje Eototy 

There is a beautiful legend of Fra Bernardo. 
The monastery had vowed to set a carved 
altar to the Christ at Christmas-tide. Every 
monk was to do his own part. All the other 
monks had finished their work. On Christmas 
[221 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of ttje Commonplace 



eve Fra Bernardo knelt and told his Lord of 
his failure. He had tried with his poor skill 
to carve something for the altar, for Christ's 
dear sake, but somehow he could not make 
anything worthy. So he prayed that his 
fingers might have skill, and that he might 
be able that very night to carve the dream of 
beauty that was in his heart. In the morning 
the monks sought Bernardo's cell and found 
him there — 

"Dead, smiling still, and prostrate as in prayer; 
While at his side a wondrous carving lay — 
A face of Christ sublimely tender, sweet, — 
The work of Fra Bernardo was complete." 

So it will be with those who seem to fail 
but who continue striving faithfully, doing 
their lowly work as well as they can. When 
the end comes it will be seen that what to them 
seemed failure was beautiful with the beauty 
of Christ. God finishes the work that his 
lowly ones try to do for them. 



[ 222 ] 



Htfe among tfje Hotolp 



Not long since in a great city an aged Chris- 
tian woman closed her earthly life. She had 
lived always in very plain circumstances. She 
had enjoyed only the most ordinary privileges 
of education. She had no peculiar gift for 
any distinct form of Christian activity. She 
had never taught a Sunday-school class, nor 
led a woman's prayer meeting, nor taken part 
in a missionary society, nor been connected 
with a temperance union or any sort of organ- 
ized association. She had never been recog- 
nized by her friends as an active worker in 
any capacity. But for sixty of her eighty 
years she had been a true, earnest and sincere 
Christian. She had been a faithful wife, and 
a loving, self-denying mother. She had 
brought up her family in the fear of the 
Lord. She had lived a quiet, patient, gentle 
life. 

About her coffin there sat a large circle 
of her descendants — her own children and 
grandchildren. Her life-story was a record, 

[ 223 ] 



Cfce OMorp of tfie Commonplace 



not of any great deeds, nor of any fine things 
done, but of eighty years of plain, simple, 
lowly, Christlike goodness. Yet it never can 
be known until the Judgment Day, when the 
books shall be opened, what blessings that 
humble life left at its close in the world. 
Its silent, unconscious influence poured out 
through all the long years into other lives, 
making them better, happier, holier, sweeter. 

Such a ministry of goodness is within the 
reach of every Christian. It requires no bril- 
liant gifts, no great wealth. It is a ministry 
which the plainest and the lowliest may ful- 
fill. Then its influence is incalculable. 

Wlnton$tiou& Helpfulness 

A young woman who had passed through 
deep sorrows said to a friend one day, in 
speaking of the comfort certain persons had 
given her unconsciously, "I wish some peo- 
ple knew just how much their faces can com- 
fort one ! I often ride down in the same street- 
car with your father, and it has been such a 
[ 224 ] 



Htfe among tfje Hotolp 



help to me to sit next to him. There is 
something so good and kind and strong 
about him, it has been a comfort just to feel 
he was beside me. Sometimes, when I have 
been utterly depressed and discouraged, he 
has seemed somehow to know just the right 
word to say to me ; but if he didn't talk, why, 
I just looked at his face, and that helped me. 
He probably has not the least idea of it, 
either, for I know him so slightly, and I 
don't suppose people half realize, anyway, 
how much they are helping or hindering 
others !" 

There is a great deal of this unconscious 
kindness in the world. Moses wist not that his 
face shone. The best people are not aware 
of their goodness. According to the legend, 
it was only when it fell behind him, where he 
could not see it, that the saintly man's 
shadow healed the sick. This is a parable. 
Goodness that is aware of itself has lost much 
of its charm. Kindnesses that are done un- 
consciously mean the most. 



[ 225 ] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



<&tan£ftgutet) bp feottoto 

It is one of the blessings of pain or suffering 
that it softens hearts, and wooes out gentle- 
ness and kindness. A very common expe- 
rience is given in the story of a worker in 
one of the slums, which tells of a whole family 
completely changed through the influence of 
a deformed child who became the angel of the 
home. The father was a navvy, the lads were 
coarse and uncouth, and the mother, over- 
worked and far from strong, had fallen into 
untidy habits. But there was born into that 
home a crippled child, and it was the means 
of drawing out the sympathy, love, and ten- 
derness of the whole family. The man nursed 
and petted his child evenings ; the boys made 
playthings for her, and showed their affec- 
tion in all sorts of pleasant ways ; the mother 
kept the window clean, that her child, pil- 
lowed on the table, might look out on the 
court. Thus a large and blessed ministry of 
kindness was inspired by what seemed a mis- 
fortune. The suffering of a child transformed 
[ 226] 



life among tfje Hotolp 



all the household life, making each heart gen- 
tler, more thoughtful, more unselfish. It is 
often so. Many a sweet home owes most of 
its sweetness to a quiet, patient sufferer, 
whose pain has been the messenger of God 
to soften hearts and enrich common lives with 
heavenly tenderness. 



[227] 



X 

Cranfiftgurattoit 




Cransftgurattan 

jFtagtanct of fLotoly Zibtg 

Once in crossing a meadow I came to a spot 
that was filled with fragrance. Yet I could 
see no flowers and I wondered whence the 
fragrance came. At last I found, low down, 
close to the ground, hidden by the tall grass, 
innumerable little flowers growing. It was 
from these the fragrance came. You enter 
some homes. There is a rich perfume of love 
that pervades all the place. It may be a 
home of wealth and luxury, or it may be plain 
and bare. No matter ; it is not the house, nor 
the furniture, nor the adornment that makes 
the air of sweetness. You look closely. It is 
a gentle woman, mother or daughter, quiet, 
lowly, hiding herself away, from whose life 
the fragrance flows. She may not be beau- 
tiful, may not be specially well educated, may 
[ 231 ] 



Clje <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



not be musical, nor an artist, nor "clever" in 
any way; but wherever she moves she leaves 
a benediction. Her sweet patience is never 
disturbed by the sharp words that fall about 
her. The children love her because she never 
tires of them. She helps them with their les- 
sons, listens to their frets and worries, mends 
their broken toys, makes dolls' dresses for 
them, straightens out their tangles, settles 
their little quarrels, and finds time to play 
with them. When there is sickness in the 
home she is the angel of comfort. Her face 
is always bright with the outshining of love. 
Her voice has music in it as it falls in cheer- 
ful tenderness on the sufferer's ear. Her 
hands are wondrously gentle as their sooth- 
ing touch rests on the aching head, or as 
they minister in countless ways about the 
bed of pain. 

& jRtto art 

There is a story in one of the sacred books 
of the Hindus of a devotee who had served a 

[ 232 ] 



Crarcsfiguratton 



certain goddess with such faithfulness that 
she offered to give him whatever he might 
ask. She offered him lands and wealth be- 
yond price, but the man said, "Alas ! I have 
no need for such things. I already have 
great estates, abundance of silver and gold, 
and all the good things of this life. But I am 
a miser. I cannot enjoy the things I possess. 
I die of famine, with plenty all around me, 
and I know nothing of the pleasures that are 
common to generous minds. Give me, then, 
a new heart." The goddess looked at him in 
amazement, and said, "Thou hast asked a 
thing too difficult," and she vanished. 

But this is the very thing God does for 
those who ask it. He is able to change the 
miser's heart, so that he may find pleasure 
in blessing others with his gifts. He does 
this by putting his words into the heart. 
Then the heart is changed, and the life that 
was all wrong is made all right. 



[ 233 ] 



OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



feet free 

The way to become free from all other mas- 
ters is to become Christ's servant. St. Paul 
delighted to call himself a slave of Christ. He 
who knows no master but Christ is free in- 
deed. We are never free until we accept 
Christ's yoke. When we do this Christ 
breaks every other chain and sets us free. 
There is a story of a stranger who entered 
an Oriental city, and as he walked through 
the market-place he saw many birds in cages. 
He asked the price of one bird and cage, and, 
paying for it, opened the door. The bird flew 
out, and rising a little way in the air, caught 
a glimpse of its native mountains far away, 
and then flew swiftly toward them, dropping 
sweet songs as it hastened toward home. The 
traveler then bought the other cages, one by 
one, and set the birds free, until all had been 
liberated. That is what Jesus would do for 
us in our captivity. He would set us all free, 
breaking our chains, opening our prison 
doors, that we may fly away toward our home. 
[ 234 ] 



Cransfiguratton 



iftttHtanc*!* a& <5oV& (&itt$ 

A Christian physician, whose career has 
been full of faith and noble ministry, gives 
this experience. He was a poor boy, and a 
cripple. One day he was watching some boys 
on the ball-field. They were active, strong 
and wealthy. As he looked on, his heart 
grew bitter with envy. A young man who 
stood beside him noted the discontent on his 
face, and said to him, "You wish you were 
in those boys' place, don't you?" "Yes, I 
do," was the answer. "I reckon God gave 
them money, education and health," con- 
tinued the young man, "to help them to be 
of some account in the world. Did it ever 
strike you," he continued, after a moment's 
pause, "that he gave you your lame leg for 
the same reason — to make a man of you?" 

The boy gave no answer, and turned away. 
He was angry, but he did not forget the 
words. His crippled leg God's gift ! To teach 
him patience, courage, perseverance! To 
make a man of him! He thought of the 
[ 2H5 ] 



Cfje <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



words till he saw their meaning. They 
kindled hope and cheer, and he determined 
to conquer his hindrance. He grew heroic. 
He soon learned that what was true of his 
lame leg, was true also of all the difficulties, 
hindrances, and hard conditions of his life — 
they were all God's gifts to him to help him 
to be of some account in the world — to make 
a man of him. 

2Diat|'0 emancipation 

The truth of immortality gives a wonderful 
motive to those who are doing spiritual work. 
Some of the people whom we seek to help are 
broken in their earthly lives. There are 
those, for example, whose bodies are dwarfed 
and misshapen. What does the truth of the 
immortal life tell us about these crippled and 
deformed ones? Only for a little while shall 
they be kept in these broken bodies. What 
an emancipation death will be to them ! 

One tells of a little wrinkled old woman 
who sells newspapers at a certain corner in 
[ 236] 



Cransftguratton 



a great city, day after day, in sun and rain, 
in winter and summer. Here is the story of 
this poor creature's life. She was bereft of 
her husband, and then an orphaned grand- 
child was put into her arms by her dying 
daughter, and she promised to provide for 
the little one. This is the secret that sends 
her to her hard task day after day. But 
that is not all the story. Some old friends 
offered the woman a home with them in return 
for trifling services, but she would have had 
to be faithless to her trust. This she could 
not be. Her dead daughter's child was sacred 
to her. So she stands there on the street cor- 
ner in all weathers, selling newspapers to pro- 
vide for the little one. Ah, it is a noble soul 
that is in that old bent, wrinkled body! No 
angel in heaven is dearer to God than that 
poor creature, serving so faithfully at her 
post. Think what immortality means to her ! 

A little child was left in the arms of a 
young father by a dying mother. He was 
thankful. "Her beautiful mother will live 
again in her, and I shall be comforted," he 
[237] 



Cfre OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



said. He lavished his love upon her. But 
the child developed spinal disease and grew 
to be sadly misshapen. The father's disap- 
pointment was pitiful. He drew himself away 
from the ill-favored child, neglecting her. At 
length the child died and as the father sat 
in his room in the evening, thinking of her 
sad, short life, he fell asleep and a radiant 
vision appeared before him. It was his daugh- 
ter, straight and beautiful, more beautiful 
than her lovely mother ever had been. He 
held out his arms yearningly, and she drew 
near to him, and knelt, and laid her head 
against his breast. They talked long of 
things in their inmost souls, and he under- 
stood that this was his daughter in reality. 
This was the child as she was in her inner 
life, the spirit-child, what she was as God 
and angels saw her. He never had been able 
to see her in this radiant loveliness, however, 
because of the physical deformity which dis- 
ease had wrought, thus hiding from his 
blinded eyes the real splendor of her sweet, 
lovely girlhood. With great tenderness he 
[ 238 ] 



Cranstfigurattcn 



laid his hand on her head, saying, "Mj 
daughter !" Then the vision vanished — it was 
only a dream. But in the dream there was 
a revealing of the truth, about her. This 
was indeed the child over whose disfigurement 
he was so bitterly disappointed. This was 
the thing that had dwelt in that crooked 
body. This was what she was now in her 
immortal body. 

Calling £>ut tfj* Q$u0it 

One of Frances Ridley Havergal's poems tells 
us of an ^Eolian harp winch a friend sent 
with a letter describing the wonderful sweet- 
ness of its tones. Miss Haver gal took the 
harp and thrummed its seven strings, but 
there were no thrilling strains, only common 
music. She read the letter again and found 
instructions which she had overlooked at first. 
Then she raised the window and put the harp 
under the sash. Now the wind swept over 
the strings and the room was filled with 
melodious strains which no fingers of man 
[ 239 ] 



Cfje «£lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



could have produced. Only when the breath 
of heaven blew upon the harp could its mar- 
velous music be brought out. 

The human soul is such a harp. Human 
fingers call out much that is lovely and sweet, 
but it is only when its chords are swept by 
the breath of heaven, by the Holy Spirit, 
that its noblest music is called out. 

A friend gave a college student a pure, in- 
spiring and elevating picture, and asked him 
to hang it up in his room and keep it there 
for one year. The young man promised to 
do so. But he cared more for worldly things, 
for a good time, than for his studies. Then 
he was not as careful as he should have been 
about his pleasures. The friend was in the 
student's room one day and saw the picture on 
the wall, in a place of honor, but clustered 
about it were many common sporting prints, 
some of them of a questionable character. 
[ 240 ] 



Cranstftguratton 



The beautiful picture in the center seemed 
strangely out of place in such unhallowed 
company. Yet the young man appeared en- 
tirely unaware of anything unfit in the set- 
ting, as he spoke very gratefully of his 
friend's beautiful gift. 

Six months later, however, the friend was 
again in the student's room. There was the 
picture still in its honored place on the wall, 
but all the questionable prints were gone, and 
in place of them hung other pictures, pure, 
refining and beautiful, all of them in harmony 
with the picture in the center. The friend 
manifested much pleasure as he looked about 
the room and saw the transformation. The 
young man said in explanation, "You see, I 
couldn't have those foolish things there beside 
that" — pointing to the other's gift. "The 
contrast was too dreadful. At first I didn't 
see it, but looking at your lovely picture 
opened my eyes to the unfitness of the others, 
and I took them all down and burned them. 
Then I bought other pictures to hang up in 
their place, but they all had to be pure and 
[241] 



Cfje aSIorp of tfje Commonplace 



good, and in harmony with the one in the 
center." 

It is always thus when Christ is taken into 
the chief place in the life. Everything that 
is not in harmony with his peerless beauty 
must go out, and only the things that are in 
keeping with the mind and spirit of Christ 
can have a place in the life. 

In one of his books Dr. Miller quoted this 
story from a volume in his library: 

"In a pottery factory there is a workman 
who had one small invalid child at home. He 
wrought at his trade with exemplary fidelity, 
being always in the shop at the opening of 
the day. He managed, however, to bear each* 
evening to the bedside of his 'wee lad,' as he 
called him, a flower, a bit of ribbon, or a frag- 
ment of crimson glass — indeed anything that 
would lie out on the white counterpane and 
give color to the room. He was a quiet, un- 
sentimental man, but never went home at 
[ 242 ] 



Cransttgurattcin 



night without something that would make 
the wan face light up with joy at his return. 
He never said to a living soul that he loved 
that boy so much, still he went on patiently 
loving him, and by and by he moved that 
whole shop into positively real but uncon- 
scious fellowship with him. The workmen 
made curious little jars and cups upon their 
wheels, and painted diminutive pictures down 
their sides before they stuck them in the 
corners of the kiln at burning time. One 
brought some fruit in the bulge of his apron, 
and another engravings in a rude scrap-book. 
Not one of them whispered a word, for this 
solemn thing was not to be talked about. 
They put them in the old man's hat, where 
he found them; he understood all about it, 
and, believe it or not, cynics, as you will, but 
it is a fact that the entire pottery, full of 
men of rather coarse fiber by nature, grew 
quiet as the months drifted, becoming gen- 
tle and kind, and some dropped swearing as 
the weary look on the patient fellow-worker's 
face told them beyond mistake that the in- 
[ 243 ] 



Cfje <®torp of tlje Commonplace 



evitable shadow was drawing nearer. Every 
day some one did a piece of work for him and 
put it on the sanded plank to dry, so that 
he could come later and go earlier. So, 
when the bell tolled and the little coffin came 
out of the lonely door, right around the cor- 
ner, out of sight, there stood a hundred 
stalwart workingmen from the pottery with 
their clean clothes on, most of whom gave 
a half day's time for the privilege of tak- 
ing part in the simple procession and follow- 
ing to the grave that small burden of a child 
which probably not one had ever seen. 

<H$t Hob* tjjat ^rawsif otmg 

"Dear Moss," said the thatch on an old ruin, 
"I am so worn, so patched, so ragged, really 
I am quite unsightly. I wish you would come 
and cheer me up a little. You will hide all 
my infirmities and defects ; and, through your 
loving sympathy, no finger of contempt or 
dislike will be pointed at me." 

"I come," said the moss ; and it crept up 
[ 244 ] 



Cranstfiguratton 



and around, and in and out, till every flaw 
was hidden, and all was smooth and fair. 
Presently the sun shone out, and the old 
thatch looked bright and fair, a picture of 
rare beauty, in the golden rays. 

"How beautiful the thatch looks!" cried 
one who saw it. "How beautiful the thatch 
looks!" said another. "Ah!" said the old 
thatch, "rather let them say, 'How beautiful 
is the loving moss !' For it spends itself in 
covering up all my faults, keeping the 
knowledge of them all to herself, and, by her 
own grace, making my age and poverty wear 
the garb of youth and luxuriance." 

So it is that love covers the plainness and 
the ruggedness of the lowliest home. It hides 
its dreariness and its faults. It softens its 
ruggedness. It changes its pain into profit, 
and its loss into gain. 

The story is told of a distinguished woman, 
that when she was a girl she was so homely 
[ 245 ] 



^fje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



that even her mother said to her one day: 
"My poor child, you are so ugly that no one 
will ever love you." The cruel words fell into 
the child's heart, but instead of making her 
bitter they had just the opposite effect. She 
determined that if her face was homely she 
would make her life so beautiful that people 
would love her. She began to be kind to 
everybody, to be loving, thoughtful, gentle, 
helpful. She never became handsome in 
features, but she did become the good angel 
of the community in which she lived. It was 
love in her heart that transformed her life 
and saved her from utter disheartenment. 

There are those whose lives have been hurt 
in some way, and who seem doomed to carry 
their marring or wounding through all their 
days, but whom the love of Christ can yet re- 
store to beauty and strength. There is no 
ruin which He cannot build up again into fair 
loveliness. There is no defect which He can- 
not turn into victory. To know that He is 
touched, the Christ on His throne of glory, 
with the feeling of our infirmities puts into 
[ 246] 



Cransftguration 



the heart a new secret of joy which will trans- 
form the dreariest life into heavenly gladness. 

Wftat (5oV$ Eobe £w0 tor 

A writer tells the story of a boy who at the 
age of eight was regarded as being of feeble 
mind, hopelessly imbecile, the result of some 
illness in infancy. The boy's father was 
widely known as an educator. Inspired by 
his deep love for the child, he took personal 
charge of his training, devoting himself to 
it most assiduously. If the boy had been sent 
to ordinary schools, he would probably never 
have been anything but an imbecile. As it 
was, however, he became bright and talented, 
passed with honor through one of the great 
universities, and became a man of ability and 
influence. The father's gentleness made him 
great. His genius as a teacher, inspired by 
his strong love for his child, took the poor, 
stunted life, and by patience developed its 
latent possibilities into beauty and noble 
strength. 

[247] 



Cfje <&loxv of tfie Commonplace 



That is what God's wonderful love does 
with us. What would we have been but for 
the divine care of us? As the warm sunshine 
falling upon the bare, dried, briery bush, un- 
sightly and apparently useless, wooes out 
leaves and buds and marvelous roses, so the 
warm love of God, falling upon our poor, sin- 
hurt lives, with only death before them, 
awakens in them heavenly yearnings and 
longings and aspirations, and leads them out 
and glorifies them. 

There is a wonderful inspiration in the 
knowledge and consciousness that God loves 
us. A newsboy was in the habit of running 
after a gentleman on the ferry-boat and 
brushing his coat with affectionate fondness. 
One day the gentleman asked him, "Why are 
you so careful with me every morning?" The 
boy answered, "Because once, when you 
bought a paper, you said, 'My child!' No 
one ever called me his child before. That's 
the reason. I love you for saying that to 
me." It was the first love the boy had found 
in this world, and it was like heaven to him. 
[ 248 ] 



It is a blessed moment to us when we first 
realize that God is our Father, and calls us 
his own children. It fills us with unspeakable 
joy. It brings the love of God about us in 
floods. It lifts us up into heaven in our ex- 
perience. 

If we keep ourselves in the love of God, the 
love of God will enter into us and fill us. We 
seem to have now but a small measure of this 
divine love in us. We are unloving in our 
own lives. We chafe easily when others irri- 
tate us. We are readily vexed and offended 
and hold grudges and resentments. If God 
were like us, what would become of us? If 
he were so unforbearing, unforgiving, and 
uncharitable as we are, if he had no more 
mercy on us than we have on those who un- 
intentionally hurt us, what would become of 
us? But if we keep ourselves in the love of 
God, all this is changed. The love in us 
transforms us into its own spirit. If a bar 
of iron lies in the fire for a time, it becomes 
red-hot — the fire enters into the iron and 
transfigures it. A lump of clay lying on a 
[249] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



rose becomes fragrant — the rose's sweetness 
enters into it. A grain of musk in a bureau 
drawer fills all the garments in the drawer 
with its perfume. If we keep ourselves in 
the love of God, in the atmosphere of that 
love, our whole being becomes saturated with 
it until we live as God lives. It was written 
of one Christian man, 

"His life grew fragrant with the inner soul, 
And weary folk who passed him on the street 
Saw Christ's love beam from out the wistful 

eyes, 

And had new confidence in God and men." 

So it will be with all who truly keep them- 
selves in the love of God. Their lives will 
be transformed into the grace and beauty of 
Christ, and the weary ones who see them and 
know them will have new faith in God and new 
love for men. 

Emning tfie JLe$&on of SDebotion 

There are transforming motives if only we 
can get them into our hearts. Love has 
[ 250 ] 



Cranstftguration 



power to transfigure the dreary tasks into de- 
lights. You have seen a young girl, light- 
hearted, care-free, with scarcely ever a serious 
thought in her mind. She seemed to think 
only of herself. She was self-indulgent, 
never denying herself anything she wanted. 
She never sacrificed her own comfort for an- 
other. By and by you saw her a mother, with 
a baby in her arms. Now her life was al- 
together changed. Love had blossomed out 
and possessed her. She cared now for her 
child with intense and self-forgetful devotion. 
She thought no longer of her own ease and 
comfort. There was no more in her any 
spirit of self-indulgence. Then she did every- 
thing, the dreariest task, gladly, joyously. 
There was no complaint, no fretting. Love 
had taught her the lesson of self-devotion, 
and her heart sang as she wrought. 

Ringing tot €>tf)n# 

A singer told the story of how she sang only 
for ambition, because she hoped to gather 
[251] 



Cfje <£lorp of tfje Commonplace 



fame and wealth. But one Sunday she went 
to sing in a prison, after the minister had 
preached. Among the convicts was one with 
strangely sad and hungry eyes. "I sang to 
that one man," the singer said, "and as I 
sang, a power that was never mine before was 
given me. The tears rained down the man's 
cheeks as he listened. Faces all about him 
began to soften." It was a holy moment for 
the singer. She had risen out of mere pro- 
fessionalism, and her soul had been touched 
and thrilled by the love of Christ. From 
that day all was new for her. 



[ 252 ] 



XI 

learning tip Jniffmns 



Hearnmg ftp buffering 

fSDut of TOfeuIation 

Dr. W. L. Watkinson tells of a flower-show 
in London, where all the flowers exhibited had 
been grown in the city. He says, "It is not 
much to grow flowers in privileged places — 
in places where there is pure air, sweet light, 
silver dew; but think of growing palms and 
myrtles, roses and orchids, in dingy courts, 
in murky cellars, in mean back yards, on nar- 
row window-sills, on the tiles, among chim- 
ney-pots — think of growing prize blossoms in 
yellow fogs, stifling air, and amid the breath 
of the million. No wonder the Queen went 
to see this exhibition ; it was one of the most 
pathetic of shows, a splendid triumph over 
dark and hard conditions." So in St. John's 
vision the noble saints, shining in white gar- 
ments and bearing the symbols of battle and 
[ 255 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfte Commonplace 



victory, had come, not out of ease and kindly 
circumstances, not out of experiences of lux- 
ury, from cosey homes, from favored spots 
and genial conditions ; rather they had won 
their nobleness in hard lots, in fierce struggle, 
in sharp temptation, in bitter sorrow, in keen 
suffering. 

Some of us grow impatient of our diffi- 
culties and hardships. We brood over them 
and come to think that we have not been 
fairly dealt with. Some of us resent our 
trials and think that God has not been kind, 
has not even been just with us. "I submit to 
you," wrote a young man the other day, 
"whether I have had a fair chance in life, 
whether God's dealing with me has been quite 
right and just." Then he told of certain 
trials and losses, certain bereavements and 
sorrows, certain disappointments and strug- 
gles which he had met, and then of certain 
wrongs and injustices he had suffered from 
those who ought to have been his friends. The 
story was one that drew out sympathy. But 
in the light of this heavenly vision all that had 
[ 256 ] 



ILearmng 6p buffering 



seemed so hard meant an opportunity for this 
young man to grow into manly strength and 
heroic character. Those who have the battles 
and the trials, and overcome in them, shall 
wear white robes and carry palm branches. 
They shall be among the victors at the last. 
Nothing noble is attained easily. The crowns 
of life can be won only on the fields of strug- 
gle. 

Tin (Btetn pastures* 

A young Christian who had been for many 
weeks in a hospital, undergoing a painful 
operation and then slowly recovering, wrote 
me in the days of her convalescence, "I have 
found my little white bed here in the hospital 
a bit of God's green pasture." Not only had 
it proved a place of rest and peace to her, 
but also a place of spiritual refreshment. 



[ 257 ] 



Cfje CMorp of tfje Commonplace 



Renan, in one of his books, recalls an old 
French legend of a buried city on the coast 
of Brittany. With its homes, public build- 
ings, churches, and thronged streets, it sank 
instantly into the sea. The legend says that 
the city's life goes on as before down beneath 
the waves. The fishermen, when in calm 
weather they row over the place, sometimes 
think they can see the gleaming tips of the 
church spires deep in the water, and fancy 
they can hear the chiming of bells in the old 
belfries, and even the murmur of the city's 
noises. There are men who, in their later 
years, seem to have an experience like this. 
The life of youthful hopes, dreams, successes, 
and joys had been sunk out of sight, sub- 
merged in misfortunes and adversities, van- 
ished altogether. All that remains is a mem- 
ory. In their discouragement they seem to 
hear the echoes of the old songs of hope and 
gladness, and to catch visions of the old 
beauty and splendor, but that is all. They 
[ 258 ] 



Hearnmg tip buffering 



have nothing real left. They have grown 
hopeless and bitter. 

But this is not worthy living for one who 
is immortal, who has been born to be a child 
of God. The hard things are not meant to 
mar out life — they are meant to make it all 
the braver, the worthier, the nobler. Adver- 
sities and misfortunes are meant to sweeten 
our spirits, not to make them sour and bitter. 

"Confide ye aye in Providence, 
For Providence is kind, 
And bear ye a' life's changes 

Wi* a calm and tranquil mind. 
Tho' pressed and hemmed on every side, 

Hae faith and ye'll win through, 
For ilka blade o' grass keps 

Its ain drap o* dew." 

We need to think of these things. There 
should be a constant gaining, never a losing 
in our spiritual life. Every year should find 
us living on a higher plane than the year be- 
fore. Old age should always be the best of 
life, not marked by emptiness and decay, but 
by higher fruitfulness and more gracious 
[259] 



Cfje Ofttorp of tfje Commonplace 



beauty. St. Paul was growing old, when 
he spoke of forgetting things behind and 
reaching forth to things before. His best 
was yet to be attained. So it should always 
be with Christian old age. We must ever 
be turning northward, toward fuller life and 
holier beauty. This can be the story of our 
experience only if our life is hid with Christ 
in God. Torn away from Christ, no life 
can keep its zest or its radiance. 

25*autg of tfi* iPtttvan 

A mother and her child sat side by side in 
the same company. Both love Christ and are 
following him. The girl is sweet, beautiful, 
a picture of grace. She never has known a 
struggle, has scarcely ever been called to 
make a sacrifice, has never found it hard to 
do right. Her face is fair, without a line. The 
mother has had cares, struggles, and fights 
with evil, has endured wrongs, has carried 
burdens, has suffered, has had bitter sorrows, 
has been misunderstood, has poured out her 
[ 260 ] 



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life in love's sacrifices. One would say that 
the child is the more beautiful, the fairer and 
lovelier in her life. But as the two appear 
in the eyes of Christ, while both are beautiful, 
the mother wears the holier loveliness. She 
has learned in suffering. She has grown 
stronger through her enduring of struggle. 
The lines of her face, which seem blemishes on 
her fair beauty, are the marks of Jesus 
Christ. The recruit who entered the ranks 
only yesterday, and who never has seen a 
battle, seems by far the handsomest soldier 
in the regiment, with his gay dress, clean 
armor, and unscarred face. But the old sol- 
dier who is the veteran of a score of battles, 
though his uniform is soiled and torn, his 
gun blackened with powder, his face marked 
with wounds and scars — is not he the more 
perfect soldier? 

CSrtet'g ftomtoit in fetcfutegtf 

When Christ comes into our lives all things 
are made new. One who had been a Christian 
[261 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



many years told of serious illness in her home 
— a beloved daughter was lying in fever. In 
this experience the mother learned as never 
before how real is the love of Christ in the 
lives of his friends. She said: "No story 
could be told which could be more wonderful 
than the story of the goodness shown to me 
these months, nothing more nearly reaching 
the miraculous than the way Christ has sent 
comfort and blessing to me and to my sick 
child." Then she went over the story, and 
it is wonderful indeed. At the moment of 
need, the right comfort always came. A nurse 
was necessary, but could not be afforded. 
Then a message came from an old friend, not 
seen for years, and the nurse was provided. 
Letters came every day with their sympathy 
and cheer, just when the mother's burden 
seemed too heavy for her to bear. Every mo- 
ment of the suffering of these months is made 
bright with the thought of Christ's love which 
came at the right moment. Everything has 
been transfigured for this mother. She found 
the fire burning on the beach, with fish there- 
[262] 



Hearnmg bp buffering 



on as well as bread, and the Master stand- 
ing by. 

<®§t &ttbitt of ImttMty 

A pastor who had wrought long and had 
hardly ever been absent from his church was 
broken down and for months could not come 
to his accustomed place. During his long 
absence he wrote to his people words like these : 
"I understand that when I am physically un- 
able to do the work I would be doing gladly 
if I could, it is not my work at all. It would 
have been mine if I were well, but now my only 
duty is to be quiet and still. Duty is not all 
activity ; sometimes it is to wait and sing. 
Nothing is going wrong in my life because I 
am not in what would be my place if I were 
well. My ministry is not broken or even inter- 
rupted by this experience. My work for my 
Master has not been stopped, — its form only 
has been changed." No doubt this pastor 
was doing as much for his people those quiet 
[ 263 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



days away from them as he had ever done in 
his active days in their midst. 

We dare not take comfort from this teach- 
ing if we are not called from our duty in some 
providential way. Some of us are too easily 
taken from our work. Small excuses are al- 
lowed to draw us away. Obstacles are not 
always meant to interrupt our efforts, — oft- 
times they are meant to be overcome, making 
us more earnest and persistent. There is al- 
together too much resignation in some Chris- 
tians. Their resignation may be indolence. 
We must be sure the Good Shepherd calls us 
to "lie down in green pastures" before we 
stop in our service. But if lying down is our 
duty, then we must do it as joyfully as ever 
we listened to a call to move strenuously for- 
ward. 

Softening tfie jfact 

In Barrie's "Margaret Ogilvy," is a chapter 
with the suggestive title, "How my mother got 
[264] 



learning tip guttering 



her soft face." She got it through suffering. 
Her boy was hurt. News had come that he 
was near death, far away from home, and the 
mother set out to go to him, hoping to reach 
him in time to minister to him and comfort 
him. Her ticket was bought, she had bidden 
the other children good-bye at the station. 
Then the father came out of the little tele- 
graph office and said huskily, "He's gone I" 
and they all went home again up the little 
brae. The mother never recovered from the 
shock. She was another woman ever after, 
however, a better woman, gentler. Barrie says, 
"That is how my mother got her soft face 
and her pathetic ways and her large charity, 
and why other mothers run to her when they 
have lost a child." There are many other 
mothers who have got soft faces in the same 
way. They have had troubles very hard to 
bear, but their lives have been made more 
beautiful by the hardness. That is part of 
what Christ is to us — he leads us through pain 
and loss, but our faces grow softer. 



[ 265 ] 



Cfje 43lorp of tfje Commonplace 



One writes of a poet whose pen was facile, 
who wrote many brilliant lines. The world 
listened and was charmed but not helped, not 
inspired to better things. The poet's child 
died, and then he dipped his pen in his heart's 
blood and wrote, and the world paused and 
listened and was blessed and quickened to more 
beautiful life. Before we can do anything 
that is really worth while in helping our fel- 
low-men, we must pass through a training of 
suffering, in which alone we can learn the les- 
sons that will fit us for this holier service. 

Heatmng in tge 2Datfme00 

In the advertising circular that came with a 
new canary bird there was a description of the 
way the birds are educated. They are raised 
in the peasant districts of Germany. When 
they are to be trained, each bird is put in a 
little box cage, with only a small hole to give 
[266] 



Hearntng ftp guttering 



him just light enough to see to eat and drink. 
These cages are then put in a room from 
which all light is excluded, and their teacher 
gives the birds a lesson every two hours. First 
they get a lesson on the flute, then on the 
violin, then on bells, and last of all a nightin- 
gale is brought in to sing its wonderful notes 
and then to teach the birds to sing at night. 

The point to be noted is that the birds must 
be taught their lessons in the darkness. They 
would not learn them in the light. It is with 
many people also as with the birds. There are 
certain songs we cannot learn to sing in the 
sunshine. So the great Teacher calls us apart 
and shuts the doors, to keep out the light and 
exclude the world's noises, and then teaches 
us the songs of peace, of joy, of trust, of love. 
Thus painful things of life have their place in 
the divine training of our lives. 

(Btototi) tgtousf} giottoto 

Many of the things our Master calls us to do 
or to endure, do not seem to our eyes at the 
[ 267 ] 



Cfje OMorp cf tfje Commonplace 



time the best things. Much of our life is dis- 
appointment. Sorrow comes ofttimes with 
its hot tears, its emptyings of the heart, its 
pain and bitterness. We do not know when we 
set qut on any bright, sunny path, into what 
experiences we shall be led. A noble young 
man married a sweet, beautiful girl. They 
were very happy. Life began for them in a 
garden of roses. Only three bright years had 
passed, however, when the young wife broke 
down in health. Then she became an invalid, 
much of the time unable to leave her room. 
The burden has been a very heavy one for the 
husband, requiring continual self-denial and 
sacrifice, besides the grief and anxiety it has 
brought. 

That was not the life these two dreamed of 
on their wedding morn. They thought only 
of gladness and prosperity. It never occurred 
to them that sickness or any trouble could 
break into their paradise. But the Master 
has made no mistake. Even already, to those 
who have watched their lives and noted the 
fruit of the suffering in them, it is becoming 
[ 268] 



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apparent that love and goodness are written 
in all the painful lines of the long story. The 
young man has been growing all the years 
in strength, in gentleness, in purity of spirit, 
in self-control, in the peace of God, and in all 
manly qualities. It seemed a strange place 
to bid him cast his nets — into the deep waters 
of disappointment — but he is now drawing 
them full of rich blessing and good. 

One writes of watching an old tree in the 
autumn, as the leaves were touched by the 
frost and fell off when the rough wind blew. 
As the tree at last became bare he saw a bird's 
nest on one of the branches. Through the 
summer days the nest had been hidden beneath 
the thick foliage, but the blasts of winter 
which swept away the leaves uncovered this 
home and shelter of the birds. So, ofttimes, it 
is in the history of God's children. In their 
prosperity we do not see their refuge, which is 
[269] 



Cjje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



hidden and secret — hidden beneath the leaves 
of worldly prosperity. But when adversity 
comes, taking away earthly beauty, strip- 
ping off the bright foliage, their true and 
eternal refuge in God is disclosed. The storms 
of earth only drive them back into God's 
bosom. 

tit ifealer 

There is a story of an Indian child who one 
day brought in from the field a hurt bird. 
The old chief asked the child where she had 
found the bird. "Among the wheat," was the 
answer. "Take it back," he said, "and lay it 
down just where you found it. If you keep 
it, it will die, but if you give it back to God, 
he can make it well again." It is with hurt 
hearts as it is with hurt birds. They belong 
to God, and only he can heal them. Human 
hands are clumsy and unskillful in comforting. 
If you have sorrow, let God be your heart's 
healer. No human hands can help, save those 
[ 270 ] 



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that God has trained into something of his 
own gentleness. When God comforts, there 
are no hurts remaining in the life, he is so 
gentle, so skillful. 

Sin &ncf)0t i|*abnttoa£& 

When they began to build a great wire sus- 
pension bridge over a wide river, a kite was 
sent across with the first fine wire. This was 
fastened, and then on it other wires were 
drawn across, until the great bridge hung in 
the air, and thousands were passing over it. 
From many a home a loved one, borne to 
heaven, carries the first heavenward thought 
of a worldly household. But from that 
moment and on that slender thread, their 
thoughts, affections, and longings go contin- 
ually heavenward, until there is a broad gold- 
en bridge hung between their home and God's 
house, and prayer and love are constantly 
passing over. 



[271] 



Cfje OBIorp of tfje Commonplace 



A boy whose young sister was dying had 
heard that if he could secure but a single 
leaf from the tree of life that grew in the 
garden of God, the illness could be healed. 
He set out to find the garden, and implored 
the angel sentinel to let him have one leaf. 
The angel asked the boy if he could prom- 
ise that his sister never should be sick any 
more if his request were granted, and that 
she should never be unhappy, nor do wrong, 
nor be cold or hungry, nor be treated 
harshly. The boy said he could not prom- 
ise. Then the angel opened the gate a lit- 
tle way, bidding the child to look into the 
garden for a moment, to have one glimpse 
of its beauty. 

"Then, if you still wish it," said the 
angel, "I will myself ask the King for a 
leaf from the tree of life to heal your 
sister." 

The child looked in, and after seeing all 
the wondrous beauty and blessedness with- 
[ 272 ] 



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in the gates, he said softly to the angel, 
"I will not ask for the leaf now. There is 
no place in all this world so beautiful as 
that. There is no friend so kind as the 
Angel of Death. I wish he would take me, 
too." 

A beautiful story is told of Rudyard 
Kipling during a serious illness a few years 
since. The trained nurse was sitting at 
his bedside on one of the anxious nights 
when the sick man's condition was most 
critical. She was watching him intently 
and noticed that his lips began to move. 
She bent over him, thinking he wished to 
say something to her. She heard him 
whisper very softly the words of the old 
familiar prayer of childhood, "Now I lay 
me down to sleep." The nurse, realizing 
that her patient did not require her serv- 
ices, and that he was praying, said in 
apology for having intruded upon him, 
[ 273 ] 



Cfje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 

"I beg jour pardon, Mr. Kipling ; I thought 
you wanted something." "I do," faintly 
replied the sick man; "I want my heav- 
enly Father. He only can care for me 
now." In his great weakness there was 
nothing that human help could do, and he 
turned to God and crept into his bosom, 
seeking the blessing and the care which 
none but God can give. That is what we 
need to do in every time of danger, of 
trial, of sorrow — when the gentlest human 
love can do nothing — creep into our heav- 
enly Father's bosom, saying, "Now I lay 
me down to sleep." That is the way to 
peace. Earth has no shelter in which it 
can be found, but in God the feeblest may 
find it. 



[ 274] 



XII 

Hootuns on tfre 2l*rigfjt g>ibt 



Hoofemg on tfje 2frrtgf)t g>\bt 

(Setting abob* tie jFog 

The Sabbath should be a day for the uplift- 
ing of the whole life. A tourist among the 
Alps tells of climbing one of the mountains 
in a dense and dripping mist, until at length 
he passed through the clouds, and stood on 
a lofty peak in the clear sunlight. Beneath 
him lay the fog, like a waveless sea of white 
vapor ; and, as he listened, he could hear the 
sounds of labor, the lowing of the cattle, and 
the peals of the village bells, coming up from 
the vales below. As he stood there he saw a 
bird fly out of the mists, soar about for a little 
while, and then dart down again and disap- 
pear. What those moments of sunshine 
were to the bird, coming up out of the cloud, 
the Sabbath should be to us. During week- 
days we live down in the low vales of life, 
[ 277 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



amid the mists. Life is not easy for us; it 
is full of struggle and burden-bearing. The 
Sabbath comes ; and we fly up out of the low 
climes of care, toil, and tears, and spend 
one day in the pure, sweet air of God's love 
and peace. There we have new visions of 
beauty. We get near to the heart of Christ, 
into the warmth of his love. We come into 
the goodly fellowship of Christian people, 
and get fresh inspiration from the contact. 

The question was asked of two church offi- 
cers, "How are matters in your church this 
year?" The first spoke discouragingly. The 
church to which he belonged seemed dead, 
he said. The attendance was not large. The 
Sunday school had fallen off. The prayer 
meetings were only a handful. The men in 
the membership appeared indifferent. Even 
the pastor did not seem as enthusiastic as he 
used to be. The whole tone of the good man's 
[ 278 ] 



Hooking on tfje 2frrtgJ)t ^tbe 



talk was lugubrious. There was not a glad, 
cheerful, praising word in all he said. 

The other man, to the same question, an- 
swered with enthusiasm. The meetings were 
full. The pastor was working with earnest- 
ness and hope. Everybody was eager to 
work. A Thanksgiving tone ran through all 
his words. A church with such sunshiny men 
for its officers will have twice the success and 
blessing that a church can have whose offi- 
cers are gloomy, disheartened, and hopeless. 

But it is not in religious life and work 
only that there is so much lack of cheer and 
hope. In all lines of life one finds the same 
spirit. In many homes there is almost an 
entire absence of the thanksgiving spirit. A 
shadow rests on all the life. There is an 
immense amount of whining heard. Nothing 
is quite satisfactory. There is little singing. 
The quest seems to be for spots and mis- 
takes, something to blame and condemn. 
How much better it would be, how much more 
of heaven we would get into our homes if 
we would train ourselves to find the beauti- 
[ 279 ] 



Cfje <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



ful things and good things in each other and 
in all our experiences and circumstances! 
Anybody can find fault — it takes no genius 
to do this. Genius is far better shown in 
finding something to praise and commend in 
imperfect people, in hard conditions. 

mijtn tfjt ftllortt) Cddcs Out 

A prize was offered for the best definition of 
a friend. Many persons competed, but the 
definition which was adjudged the best and 
to which the prize was awarded was, "A 
friend — the first person who comes in when 
the whole world has gone out." Some of us 
know the truth of this definition by experi- 
ence. There was a time when we needed a 
friend and one by one our acquaintances and 
those who called us friend, passed by and 
passed on and away — cold, unsympathetic, 
unheeding, leaving us to struggle along 
with our burden, our need, or our responsi- 
bility. Then when all had gone out there 
came one, cheerful, brave, strong, unself- 
[280] 



Hoofemg on tfje 2?rtgf)t ^ibe 



ish, speaking the word or doing the deed 
which brought us relief, so that we could 
go on our way without failing. 

It is such a friend that Christ is to us — 
when all the world has gone out and no 
one is ready to help, He comes in; when all 
human friends have failed us, He stands 
beside us, strong and faithful. Human love 
may be true, but at best its power is 
limited. It can go only one short mile with 
us, and then must fall out, fall behind, leav- 
ing us to go on alone. It has no wisdom 
to help beyond the merest borders of ex- 
perience. We are powerless in the presence 
of any great human need. True friend- 
ship can do much. One wrote to a friend 
that he had never crossed the friend's 
threshold with a grief but that he went 
away without it; had never come hungry- 
hearted without being fed and having his 
sorrow comforted. Never had the friend's 
door been closed to him for even one little 
day. Yet there came a day when even that 
door was closed, when that friendship gave 
[281] 



Cfje OSIor? of tfje Commonplace 



no help, no response, no consolation, no 
comfort. Human friendship is wondrously 
sweet, jet there come experiences when the 
truest, strongest human friend can do noth- 
ing. But when all the world has gone out, 
Christ will come in. He is an unfailing, an 
eternal Friend. 

A connoisseur in gems brought a la^ge, 
beautiful onyx to an artist, and said: "See 
how clear, pure, and transparent this stone 
is. What a fine one for your skill, were 
it not for this one fatal blemish!" Then 
he showed the lapidary at one point an 
underlying tinge of iron-rust, which, he 
said, made the stone almost worthless. 

But the artist took it, and with match- 
less skill and delicacy wrought upon the 
stone, carving on it the graceful figure of 
a lovely goddess. By most ingenious and 
patient use of his engraving tool, he fash- 
ioned it so that what had seemed an ir- 
[282 ] 



Hooking on tfje 2frrtgf)t Jnbe 



reparable blemish was made into a leopard- 
skin, on which rested the feet of the goddess 
— the contrasting colors enhancing the 
beauty of the cameo. 

This illustrates what we may do with the 
hard things in our condition, what God 
would have us do with them. We think 
we can never make anything good and 
worthy of our life, with the many dis- 
couraging things, the obstinate hindrances 
there are in our lot. Really, however, we 
can make our life all , the nobler, richer, 
greater, stronger, worthier, by means of the 
very things which, we think, ruin our 
chances. 

$n tf\t Rafting 

In one of George Maedonald's books occurs 
this fragment of conversation. "I wonder 
why God made me," said Mrs. Faber, bit- 
terly. "I'm sure I don't know where was the 
use of making me." 

"Perhaps not much yet," replied Dor- 
[ 283 ] 



Cfte <2Morj> of tfje Commonplace 



othy; "but then he hasn't done with you 
yet. He is making you now, and you don't 
like it." 

It would give us more patience with our- 
selves if we always remembered this. We 
would not get so discouraged with our in- 
firmities, imperfections, and failures if we 
always kept in mind the fact that we are 
not yet made, that we are only in process 
of being made, that God is not yet through 
making us. It would often help us to 
understand better the reasons for the hard 
or painful experiences that come to us. God 
is at work on us, making us. If we yield 
ourselves to his hand, in quietness and con- 
fidence, letting him do what he will with 
us, all will be well. 

Ringing fttoa# tfje pam 

A party of tourists were driving one day 
along the road to Killarney. As they ap- 
proached a cottage near the drive, they 
[ 284 ] 



Hoofetng on tfje 2?rigfjt ^tbe 



heard singing. The voice that sang was 
sweet and rich, and of wondrous power. The 
members of the party were entranced. They 
stopped to listen as the notes of the song 
rose higher and clearer. Presently a young 
girl came out of the cottage with a basket 
on her arm. 

"Please tell us who is singing so sweetly 
in your cottage," one of the party asked 
her. 

"It is only my Uncle Tim, sir," answered 
the girl. "He has just had a bad turn with 
his leg, and he is singing away the pain." 

"Is he young? Can he ever get over the 
trouble?" asked the young man. 

"Oh, he is getting a bit old, now, sir," re- 
plied the girl. "The doctors say he'll never 
be any better in this world — but he's so 
good it would make you cry to see him suf- 
fering his terrible pain, and then hear him 
singing the more sweetly the more he is 
suffering." 

That is what the peace of God will help 
us to do. It gives us songs in the night. 
[ 285 ] 



Cfte OSIorp of tfje Commonplace 



It puts joy into our hearts when we are 
in the midst of sorest trouble. It turns our 
thorns into roses. 

Billing out of patn 

An old legend relates that long ago some 
monks had found the crown of thorns which 
the Saviour wore on the day he was cruci- 
fied. During Passion Week it was laid on 
the altar in the chapel, and the people 
looked upon the sacred crown with great 
reverence, awed as they saw the cruel thorns 
bearing still their stains of blood. Very 
early on Easter morning one of the monks 
entered the chapel to remove the dreadful 
relic which would be so out of harmony 
with the glad thoughts of the day. When 
he had opened the door he found the whole 
place filled with wondrous perfume. He 
could not understand it. As he went up 
to the altar, the early sunlight, coming in 
through the eastern window, showed him the 
crown still resting there, but it had become 
[ 286 ] 



Hooking on tlje 2frrtgf)t ^ftre 



a crown of roses, every rose pouring out 
its marvelous fragrance. 

The beautiful legend is a parable of what 
Christ does with earth's sorrows for all 
who love and trust him. The life of Chris- 
tian faith is not freed from pain, but out of 
the pain comes rich blessing. The crown 
of thorns must be worn by the Master's 
friends who follow him faithfully, but the 
thorns burst into sweet flowers as the light 
of heaven's morning touches them. 

* 

A writer tells of a boy who was sunny and 
brave. He met the ills of life, which too 
many people regard as almost tragedies, 
with courage. Nothing ever daunted him. 
Where most boys are afraid or break into 
tears, he was undismayed and untroubled. 
But one day something serious happened. 
He and a playmate climbed a tree. Just 
when our little philosopher had reached the 
[ 287 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



top, his foot slipped and he fell to the 
ground. He lay there, evidently hurt, but 
uttered no cry. It was the playmate that 
screamed. The doctor found the leg badly 
broken. The boy bore the setting patiently 
without a whimper. The mother slipped out 
of the room to hide her own tears — she 
couldn't stand it as well as her boy did. 
Outside the door she heard a faint sound 
and hurried back, almost hoping to find him 
crying. 

"My boy!" she said, "do you want some- 
thing? I thought I heard you call." 

"Oh, no, mother," he said, "I didn't call. 
I just thought I'd try singing a bit." And 
he went on with the song. 

When you have pain, or struggle, or a 
heavy load, or a great anguish, don't com- 
plain, don't cry out, don't sink down in 
despair, don't be afraid — try singing a bit. 
Trust God and praise. 



[ 288 ] 



Hooking on tfje 2?rtgf)t Jnbe 



l&ememhtz$ 

Mr. Charles G. Trumbull tells a beau- 
tiful little story. It is an incident of an 
Austrian watering-place : 

" 'Ah ! but I have the remembers,' said 
the young Austrian doctor, with a happy 
smile. The day was gloomy and dismal, 
for it was raining hard. The great Kaiser- 
bad, with its white steps and handsome 
architecture, that shone so gleamingly 
beautiful under a noonday sun, now looked 
a dirty yellow as the rain beat upon its 
sides, and trickled down the ins and outs of 
its masonry. Few people were to be seen 
on the streets or in the music-gardens and 
open-air cafes of the usually lively little 
Bohemian resort. Even the peaks of the 
surrounding Austrian Alps could be seen 
but dimly through the cloud and fog. If 
one was ever to be depressed by the weather, 
it seemed as though the time had come. 

"So thought an American visitor, who, 
on ascending the steps of the Kaiserbad 
[289] 



Cfje 4$>lovv of tfje Commonplace 



for his customary Swedish gymnastics and 
bath, had met one of the little physicians 
in attendance. But only yesterday the 
Prince of Bulgaria had completed his stay 
in the village. He had conferred an honor- 
able order upon the chief physician at the 
Kaiserbad, and had given each of the lesser 
lights a princely fee as a parting token. 
No wonder that the spirits of the young 
doctor were not to be dampened by a mere 
rainy day. So, in response to the Ameri- 
can's 'Good-morning; what disagreeable 
weather!' came quickly in broken English, 
'Ah! but I have the remembers.' The words 
and the lesson stayed with those to whom 
they were afterward repeated, and the 
thought of the gloom-banishing power of 
the little doctor's 'remembers' had been 
more effective and far-reaching than per- 
haps he or the Prince of Bulgaria ever 
dreamed of." 

If we all would keep in our hearts the 
"remembers," the memory of the beautiful 
things, the cheering things, the happy 
[290] 



Hoofemg on tfje 2frrtsf)t ^ibe 



things that come to us in our bright, pleas- 
ant days, we should never have a day of 
unrelieved gloom. 

Hint enlarging ot fLitt 

Acquisition is not gain, possessing is not 
inheriting. The way the meek man inherits 
the earth is by getting the beautiful things 
of the world into his life, not merely by 
having them added to his estate. It is not 
by owning mountains, but by having the 
mountains in his heart that a man is really 
enriched. Dr. Robertson Nicoll, in speak- 
ing of owning and possessing, says: "I oc- 
casionally go out on a Saturday afternoon 
along a Surrey lane. Who owns that lane? 
I do not know. But I possess it. It be- 
longs to me, for I can appreciate its beauty 
of color and contour; I go through it with 
a rejoicing heart, and I care not who holds 
the title-deeds." 

A man who is seeking to enlarge his life 
[291 ] 



<Qli)t OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



may continue poor all his years in an earth- 
ly sense, but he receives into his life qual- 
ities of character which make him a better 
and greater and richer man. 

A mother, after a sore bereavement which 
changed all her life, was grieving at having 
to leave the old home where everything had 
grown sacred. Tears filled her eyes as she 
took the last look at the familiar scene — 
house, grounds, trees, and hills. Her little 
boy tried to comfort her, and as he looked 
out of the window of the car, he said: 
"Why, mother, God's sky is over us yet! 
It's going right along with us." We never 
can get beyond the blue of the heavens ; 
we never can get out from under the shadow 
of the Almighty. Wherever we may have to 
go we shall always have the love of God 
over us. 

[ 292 ] 



Hooking on tfje 2?rtsfjt Jnbe 



feingmff in fyt $®tii$t of buttering 

There is a story of song birds being 
brought over the sea. There were thirty- 
six thousand of them, mostly canaries. At 
first, after the ship sailed, the sea was calm 
and the birds were silent. They kept their 
little heads under their wings and not a 
note was heard. But the third day out the 
ship struck a furious gale. The emigrants 
were terrified, the children wailed. Then 
this strange thing happened. As the tempest 
reached its height, the birds all began to 
sing, first one, then another, till the whole 
thirty-six thousand were singing as if their 
little throats would burst. Is that the way 
we Christians do? When the trouble begins, 
when the clouds of sorrow gather and break, 
when the storm rises in its fury — do we then 
begin to sing? If we fully understand the 
covenant of our God and believed his prom- 
ises, should not our song break forth in ten- 
fold joy when the tempest begins? But in- 
stead, we get frightened at the smallest 
[293] 



Cfje O&orp of tije Commonplace 



troubles, we fret and grow discontented 
when any hope fails. We chafe at little 
sufferings, we complain and repine, and the 
sunshine dies out of our face and the glad- 
ness out of our voice. 

A little story-poem tells of a shepherd 
boy leading his sheep through a valley when 
a stranger, meeting him, and looking close- 
ly at his flock, said, "I see you have more 
white sheep than black." "Yes," answered 
the boy; "it is always so." 

It is always so with sheep ; there are 
more white ones than black in every flock. 
But we may take a wider view, and we shall 
find that everywhere in life there is more 
white than black. It is so in nature. There 
are some desert spots on the earth; but 
these are few, and their extent is small in 
comparison with the broad, fertile fields 
which spread everywhere. There are some 
sad people in every community; but the 
[ 294< ] 



Hooking on tfje 2£rigf)t Jnbe 



number is far exceeded by those who are 
happy. There always are sick and crip- 
pled and blind and suffering ones ; but they 
make only a small proportion of the whole 
population of any place, the great majority 
being well, active, and strong. There are 
cloudy days in every year; but there are 
more days of sunshine and blue skies. 

In any life, too, there is more white than 
black. Some people are not willing to con- 
fess that this is true. They imagine that 
the evil days are more in number than the 
good, that there is more cloud than blue 
sky in their life, that they have more sor- 
row than joy. But this is never true. There 
may be days when the darkness swallows 
up the light, but at evening time it shall 
be light. Really the list of mercies in any 
life, if added up through the years, would 
make a measureless record, while the sad 
and painful things, if footed up, would 
show an almost inappreciable list. The 
trouble with too many good people is that 
one little spot of darkness bulks so in their 
[ 295 ] 



Cfje <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



vision that it hides a whole heaven full of 
stars. One sorrow blots out the memory 
of a thousand joys. One disappointment 
makes them forget years of fulfilled hopes. 
Many people have a strangely perverted 
faculty of exaggerating their molehills of 
trouble into mountains, and looking at their 
blessings through diminishing lenses. 

It would minister greatly to our gladness 
if we had a firm faith in the goodness of 
the providence that rules in all the affairs 
of our life. There is infinitely more mercy 
than misery in the world, more pleasure 
than pain, more white than black. Then, 
even the things that seem adverse have hid- 
den in them a secret of blessing. "All things 
work together for good to them that love 
God." In every tear a rainbow sleeps. 

It is said that one of the great diamond fields 
in South Africa was discovered in this in- 
teresting way: One day a traveler entered 

[ 296 ] 



Hooking on tfje 2?rtgf)t Jnbe 



the valley, and paused before a settler's 
door where a boy was amusing himself by 
throwing stones. One of the stones fell at 
the feet of the visitor; and he picked it up, 
and was about to return it to the boy when 
he saw a flash of light from it which ar- 
rested his attention, and made his heart 
beat with eager surprise. The stone was 
a diamond. The boy had no thought of 
its value; to him it was only a plaything. 
To the passer-by it was only a pebble which 
he spurned with his feet. But to the eye 
of the man of science, a gem of surprising 
value was unfolded in the rough covering. 

So it is that many of the events of Provi- 
dence appear to ordinary eyes as uninter- 
esting, without meaning, ofttimes as even 
unkindly, adverse. Yet in each event there 
is wrapped up a divine treasure of good 
and blessing for the child of God. We need 
only eyes of Christian faith to find in every 
painful experience a helper of our gladness. 
Precious gems of rarest blessing are in- 
closed in the rough crusts of hardship, care, 
[ 297 ] 



CJje <£lorp of tfje Commonplace 



loss, and trial, which we are constantly com- 
ing upon in our life's way. We shall find 
when we get home that many of the things 
from which we have shrunk as evils have 
been the bearers to us of our richest treas- 
ures of good. 

<Hf)t (I&Iaggesf Sou H&tat 

A lady took her visitor to a window to 
show her a view which to her was most 
inspiring. The guest manifested almost 
disgust as she exclaimed that all she saw 
was an unusually fine lot of black chimneys 
and smoky back-buildings. The genial 
hostess said, cheerfully, "Why I never saw 
the chimneys and back-buildings before. I 
saw only the hills yonder and that fringe 
of noble trees on the horizon!" This 
woman got far more out of life than her 
friend did, for she had eyes for the beauty 
and grandeur of the world about her, while 
the other saw only the things that were 
homely and without beauty. 

[298] 



Hoottmg on tfje 2?rtgf)t J>tbe 



The same is true of the men and women 
about us, as well as of the scenes and con- 
ditions. It would add immeasurably to our 
pleasure in life if we would train ourselves 
to look for whatsoever things are true, 
whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever 
things are lovely, in the people about us, 
instead of for the blemishes and faults. If 
we wore the glasses of love and charity, it 
would be in this way that we should see 
every one and every one's work. What a 
change it would make for us in the world 
of people if we should some day put on 
these new glasses and look at others 
through them! 

It is related of a New England farmer that 
he put all his combativeness into a rough 
farm in Massachusetts and made it one of 
the best. Once a friend said to him, "I 
should think that with your love of farm- 
ing you would like to have a more pro- 
[ 299] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



ductive soil to deal with — in some Western 
State, for instance." 

"I should hate farming in the West," he 
said vigorously. "I should hate to put my 
spade into the ground where it did not hit 
against a rock." 

There are many men who would find no 
pleasure if it were only and always easy. 
Their chief delight is in meeting obstacles 
and overcoming them. A hindrance in their 
path arouses the best that is in them in 
the effort to master it. 

It is true in a measure of all good life 
that it needs antagonism or struggle to de- 
velop it. 



[ 300] 



XIII 



/ 



A minister sat with a father and mother 
by the bed of a child, who was hovering be- 
tween life and death. He was about to pray 
for the little sufferer, and turning to the 
parents he asked, "What shall we ask God 
to do?" After some moments the father 
answered, with deep emotion: "I would not 
dare to choose. Leave it to Him." 

Would it not be better always in things 
of earthly interest to leave to God the de- 
cision, letting Him choose what it is best 
for him to do for us or to give to us? We 
are not in the world to have ease and pleas- 
ure, to succeed in business, to do certain 
things — we are here to grow into strength 
and beauty of life and character, to ac- 
complish the will of God and to have that 
will wrought out in our own life. Ofttimes 
[ 308 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



the present must be sacrificed for the 
future, the earthly given up to gain the 
heavenly, pain endured for the sake of 
spiritual refining and enriching. If we are 
willing to let God choose for us and accept 
what He gives, we shall never fail to receive 
the best — perhaps not what earth would 
call the best, but always God's best. We 
know not what to pray for as we ought, 
and we would better leave it to God. 

The truest prayer is ofttimes that in 
which we creep into the bosom of God and 
rest there in silence. We do not know what 
to ask, and we dare not say even a word, 
lest it might be the wrong word, hence we 
simply wait before God in quietness and 
confidence. We know that what is best our 
Father will do, and we trust Him to do what 
He will. 

Smiting &\xbmi$0irm 

Christ does not seek to take away the bur- 
den — rather, he would make us- strong and 
[304] 



QZty WiU 2fa Bant " 



brave to bear it. One writes of an invalid 
lady who had a little locket in which were 
five dates written in red ink. "Those are the 
black-letter, not the red-letter, days of my 
life," she said to her friend. "The first is 
the date of mother's death, and O, how I 
rebelled, though I was only a girl in my 
teens. The second, three years later, is the 
date of my father's leaving us, and again 
I rebelled. The third marks the time of 
my husband's going, and still I murmured 
and struggled. The fourth is the date of 
the taking of my only darling, a sweet little 
fellow of five, and this time I almost cursed 
my heavenly Father, for now all my loved 
ones were gone and I was left alone. All 
the while I was not a Christian — indeed, 
I had grown bitter and hard. I thought 
God was punishing me. Now I see that he 
was not punishing, but educating me by a 
strange discipline. But I want you to look 
at the last date," the woman continued. It 
read March 3, 1898. She said, "That was 
the day I gave my heart to the Saviour. 
[ 305 ] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



You notice there were twenty-six years be- 
tween the first date and the last — twenty- 
six years of fruitless rebellion. It took 
me twenty-six years to learn to say, 'Thy 
will be done.' 99 

netting C&ttet C&uittt 

The evangelist, Mr. Charles M. Alexander, 
relates a story he heard a woman tell in a 
Friends' meeting. She quoted the words in 
the prophet's description of the Messiah, 
"The government shall be upon His shoul- 
der." Then she gave two illustrations. She 
told first of a good woman with a large fam- 
ily and many household cares, who became 
very ill. She was in great distress, not 
knowing how she could be spared from her 
tasks, how the affairs of her home could 
be carried on without her. Then an old 
and trusted servant came into her room 
and volunteered to take charge of every- 
thing. "Give yourself no anxiety," she 
said. "Everything will go on beautifully." 
[306] 



So the good woman turned over everything 
to the faithful servant — her pocketbook, 
her keys, all the care and all the planning. 
So we may trust Christ with all our affairs 
and let Him do all for us. "The government 
shall be upon His shoulder." 

A boy was out driving with his father. 
The father said: "You may choose to-day 
where we shall go, on what roads and to 
what places." The boy replied: "No, 
father, I do not want to choose the way. 
You always choose the loveliest roads and 
find the way to the most beautiful spots. 
I know I could not make the drive half so 
pleasant as you will." Then the father said: 
"Would you not like to drive, then?" But 
again the boy declined. "I don't want to 
drive, father. You drive so carefully. You 
always find the smoothest roads. You never 
take the wrong way. You never run against 
stones. If I drove I know I should run 
against stones. If I drove I know I should 
run over rough places, and we would be 
jolted. I would rather have you drive." 
[ 307 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



The boy had learned that his father could 
find better ways and would drive more safe- 
ly than he could, and so he preferred just 
to sit in the carriage and let his father 
choose the way. 

When we read of Christ that the govern- 
ment is upon His shoulder, why should we 
not rejoice to leave in His hands the guid- 
ance and the protection of our lives? Think 
how wise He is — knowing all things, know- 
ing how to choose the best for us. Who 
does not know that this is better, safer, 
wiser than if we were to choose the way for 
ourselves ? _ 

€omtoit in <BoV& Mill 

A beautiful story is told of a devout Jew- 
ish home in which were twin boys who were 
greatly beloved. In the absence of the 
father, both boys suddenly died. When 
the father returned, not knowing of the sor- 
row in his home, the mother met him at the 
door and said, "I have had a strange visitor 
since you went away." 

[ 308 ] 



<3Tf)i> Will 2te &ont" 



"Who was it?" asked the father, not 
suspecting her meaning. 

"Five years ago," his wife answered, "a 
friend lent me two precious jewels. Yester- 
day he came and asked me to return them 
to him. What shall I do?" 

"Are they his?" asked the father, not 
dreaming of her meaning. 

"Yes, they belong to him and were only 
lent to me." 

"If they are his, he must have them 
again, if he desires." 

Leading her husband to the boys' room, 
the wife drew down the sheet, uncovering 
the lovely forms, white as marble. "These 
are my jewels," said the mother. "Five 
years ago God lent them to me and yester- 
day He came and asked them again. What 
shall we do?" 

<H%e &nzet of peace 

A poor woman in the hospital was told by 
the matron that she could not recover, that 
[ 309 ] 



Cfje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



her complaint was incurable. It is very 
hard to be told this — that one never can 
hope to be better, that one's life work is 
done. However, this poor sufferer was not 
overcome by what the kindly matron told 
her. She did not shrink from pain and 
death. But there was still one point at 
which she could not yield to God's way. 
With tears she said that she gladly and 
patiently accepted God's will so far as her 
own pain and death were concerned, but 
she could not bear the thought of leaving 
her children alone. She declared that no 
one could induce her to feel resigned on 
this matter. 

The visitor to whom she said this had no 
words with which to chide her. She could 
only say to the poor woman, "Yours is un- 
told sorrow, far beyond my understanding, 
but God knows all about it; God under- 
stands. Will you not tell him just how you 
feel ? Tell him what you have told me, all 
your pain, your anxiety about your little chil- 
dren, your sore dread at thought of leaving 
[310] 



them alone in this world." Then the visitor 
went away, promising to pray for the poor 
woman, in her sore struggle. In a day or 
two she came again, and found the sufferer 
calm and patient. She had told God — 
had poured out her whole heart in unre- 
strained prayer, and she said to her friend, 
"I am just leaving everything with God; 
not only whether I shall live or die, but 
each one of my little children, if I am to 
be taken from them. Everything is safe 
with him. I feel it now. I know it." 

She had acknowledged God in this hard 
way, as in all other and easier ways. She 
had acknowledged him, too, by telling him 
all about her trouble, by going over her 
anxieties with him, and now there is no 
trouble, no anxiety, any longer. There are 
now no "anything but this" in her submis- 
sion. To the Master's words: "In all thy 
ways," she could now respond, "Yes, Lord, 
in all my ways." 

This is the secret of peace — this losing of 
our will in Christ's. 

[811 ] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



£>met ot iBot totting 

There was a trifling accident to a railway 
train one day, which caused an hour's de- 
lay. One lady on the train was greatly ex- 
cited. The detention would cause her to 
miss the steamer, and her friends would be 
disappointed in the morning when she should 
fail to arrive. That night the steamer on 
which she so eagerly wished to embark was 
burned to the water's edge, and nearly all 
on board perished. Her feeling of grieved 
disappointment was changed to one of 
grateful praise for the strange deliverance 
wrought. A carriage drove rapidly to a 
station one afternoon, just as the train 
rolled away; it contained a gentleman and 
his family. They manifested much annoy- 
ance and impatience at the failure to be in 
time. Important engagements for to-mor- 
row could not be met. Sharp words were 
spoken to the coachman; for the fault was 
his, as he had been ten minutes late in ap- 
pearing. An angry scowl was on the gentle- 
[312] 



man's face, as he drove homeward again. 
All the evening he was sullen and unhappy. 
In the next morning's paper he read an ac- 
count of a terrible bridge accident on the 
railway. The train he had been so anxious 
to take, and so annoyed at missing, had 
carried many of its sleeping passengers to a 
horrible death. The feeling of bitter vexa- 
tion and sullen anger was instantly changed 
to one of thanksgiving. In both these cases 
the goodness of God was shown in not suf- 
fering his children to do what they con- 
sidered essential to their happiness or suc- 
cess. 

There is a story of a rabbi who met a child 
carrying a basket closely covered. "Tell 
me, little maid," said the rabbi, "what you 
have in that basket." The child answered, 
"If my mother had wished that any one 
should know what is in this basket, she 
would not have covered it up." If God had 
[313] 



Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 

meant us to know all his plans of love for 
us, he would not have kept them covered up 
under experiences of pain and suffering. 
We may be sure, however, that for all our 
times of chastening and trial there is an 
afterward, full of glorious good, waiting 
for us. 



[314] 



XIV 

Cfje Hobe of <$ob 



Cfje Hobe of <$ob 

The superintendent of a hospital in Mexico, 
a hospital chiefly for workers on a new rail- 
road, writes of her amazement over the way 
some persons are brought in hurt from ac- 
cidents, with scarcely a trace of life remain- 
ing, and yet how life persists in them. She 
tells of one man with both arms torn away 
at the shoulders, both limbs broken in 
two or three places, head cut and torn, 
body bruised, yet living and recovering. 
How frail we are, and yet what persistent 
life we have! God loves us and will shelter 
us from harm and will keep us from being 
destroyed, if only we will let our lives lie 
in his hand, trusting and obeying him. "We 
prevail by yielding, we succumb to conquer, 
like those sea flowers which continue to 
[317] 



Cfje <£lorp of tfje Commonplace 



bloom amid the surf, where the rocks crum- 
ble." We have seen flowers growing sweet 
and fresh in the early spring days under 
the great snowdrifts. So God hides and 
protects the gentle lives of those who trust 
in Him, and in the very snow banks of 
trouble and trial which surround them. 
The least and feeblest of us can keep our- 
selves unspotted in the sorest perils, if we 
hide away under the shelter of the divine 
love. 

Sometimes God's sheep, in their experience 
in this world, must pass through deep, 
dark valleys; and yet they need not be 
afraid, the Shepherd is with them. Not 
only is He with them, but is able and willing 
to defend them against all enemies, as well 
as to guide and help them through. 

Life is full of illustrations. A child cries 
out in the night in terror. It is afraid in 
the darkness. The mother speaks, thus re- 
[318] 



Cfje Hobe of <£ob 



vealing her presence; and the child is com- 
forted, and in a moment sleeps in peace. A 
timid one is afraid to go through some 
gloomy way. One brave and strong and un- 
afraid, says, "I will go with you"; and all 
fear vanishes, and the timid heart becomes 
bold. A poor woman in a London hospital was 
told that she must undergo a painful opera- 
tion. She was asked if she was willing to 
submit to it. After a moment's hesitation 
she said, "Yes, I can endure it if Lady 
Augusta Stanley will sit by me and hold 
my hand." "I will fear no evil; for thou 
art with me." 

We know how the presence of a strong, 
tried, trusted friend comforts us in any 
place of loneliness or danger. Were you 
ever in a strange city, where, amid all the 
throngs on the streets you saw no face you 
had ever seen before, none in which you 
perceived any token of recognition? You 
were opposed by a dreadful sense of loneli- 
ness. Then suddenly you met a friend, one 
you had known long, and in whom you had 
[319] 



Cfje <£lorp of tfje Commonplace 



confidence. What a sense of comfort this 
friend's presence gave you! Instantly your 
feeling of loneliness vanished. You were no 
longer afraid. This is the comfort which 
is described in the wonderful words of this 
psalm: "I will fear no evil: for thou art 
with me." 

30 Cot! SLltoty& mn*i 

The crippled girl in Ralph Connor's story 
could not understand how God could be 
good and let her suffer so. Her friend asked 
her about the plaster jacket the doctors 
had put on her. 

"Did it hurt you when they put it on?" 

"It was awful," she replied, shuddering 
as she thought of it. 

"What a pity your father wasn't there!" 
said her friend. 

"Why, he was there." 

"Your father there, and did not stop 
the doctors hurting you so cruelly?" 

"Why, he let them hurt me. It's going 
[ 320] 



Cfje Uoue of <$ob 



to help me, perhaps make me able to walk 
about some day." 

"Oh, then they did not hurt you in 
cruelty, just because they wanted to? I 
mean that your father loves you, though 
he let you be hurt; or, rather, he let the 
doctors hurt you just because he loves 
you, and wants to make you well." 

The girl became very thoughtful. Pres- 
ently the light began to shine in her face. 
Then she asked, as the mystery of it all 
began to become clear to her, "Do you mean 
that though God let me fall and suffer so, 
he loves me?" 

Her friend nodded. Presently she said, 
as if to herself, "I wonder if that can be 
true." 

We are sure also that God could relieve 
us of the things that are so hard for us to 
bear — could, if he would. There is nothing 
that God could not do. Pilate boasted to 
Jesus that he had power to crucify him, 
or to release him, as he chose. "No," said 
Jesus; "thou canst have power over me 
[321 ] 



Cfje <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



only as it is given thee from above." This 
is God's world, and nothing can get out of 
God's hands. "My lovingkindness shall not 
depart from thee." 

25Itmtin# SDear to dfrrti 

Not perfect, but blameless. Some one has 
said that no doubt many of the most beau- 
tiful things in heaven are the outcome of 
earth's blunders — things which God's chil- 
dren, with loving hearts, tried to do to 
please God. The blunders tell of love, and 
are dear to God. There is a rich home 
which I visit in which the most sacred and 
precious household treasure is a piece of 
puckered sewing. A little child one day 
picked up the mother's sewing — some simple 
thing she had been working on — and after 
half an hour's quiet, brought it to her and 
gave it to her, saying, "Mother, I's been 
helping you, 'cause I love you so." The 
stitches were long and the sewing was 
puckered, but the mother saw only beauty 
[322] 



^fce Hote of OSob 



in it all, for it told of her child's love and 
eagerness to please her. That night the 
little one sickened, and in a few hours was 
dead. No wonder the mother keeps that 
piece of drawn and puckered sewing among 
her rarest treasures. Nothing that the most 
skillful hands have wrought, among all her 
household possessions, means to her half 
so much as that handkerchief with the 
child's unskilled work on it. 

€f)ii$V$ Wltltome tot tfie linnet 

The people thought Jesus would not want 
to be troubled with a beggar. But how 
mistaken they were! There is a story of 
President Lincoln, that one day he was ill, 
and refused audience to all who called — 
senators, diplomats, chief justices — the 
greatest and most distinguished in the land. 
Then a poor woman came, begging to see 
the President. Her dress was plain and 
worn, her face was thin and sorrowful, and 
[ 323 ] 



Cfee OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



in her arms she carried a baby. When she 
was told that the President was ill and could 
not see her, she begged so earnestly to be 
allowed to speak to him for a moment that 
the attendant went to the President and 
told him of her. "Show her in," was the 
prompt reply. Though he would not see 
the great and noble who came to honor 
him, he could not refuse to see this poor 
woman who came in her distress to beg 
for her soldier-husband's life. 

Is it not thus with Christ? Even if 
there should be a day when angels and 
saints would be kept away, he would still 
welcome the penitent or the poor sufferer 
who comes with his bitter needs. 

jQDtit ot tfje JFtagmentg 

A distinguished musician ordered a violin 
from a maker of violins — the best he could 
make. At length he came for his instru- 
ment. He began to draw the bow across 

[ 324 ] . 



Qfyt Hobe of aSoo 



the strings, and his face clouded. He was 
disappointed. He broke the violin to pieces 
on the table, paid the price, and went away 
angry. The maker gathered up the frag- 
ments of the shattered instrument and care- 
fully put them together. Again the mu- 
sician came, and taking his bow, drew it 
over the strings, and now the tone was per- 
fect. He was pleased. "What is the 
price?" he asked. "Nothing," the maker 
replied. "This is the violin you broke to 
pieces on my table. I put the fragments 
together and this is the instrument on which 
you now make such noble music." 

God can take the broken fragments of a 
life, shattered by sorrow or by sin, and out 
of them make a new life whose music shall 
thrill many hearts. If one is discouraged, 
if the life seems to be hopelessly broken, 
the gospel of divine love brings encourage- 
ment. There are no ruins of life out of 
which God cannot build beauty and blessing. 



[325] 



CJje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



mitljout Care 

Martin Luther, referring to care for to- 
morrow, says: "I have one preacher that I 
love better than any other on earth; it is 
my little tame robin, who preaches to me 
daily. I put his crumbs upon my window 
sill, especially at night. He hops onto 
the window sill when he wants his supply, 
and takes as much as he desires to satisfy 
his need. From thence he always hops to 
a little tree close by, lifts up his voice to 
God and sings his carol of praise and grati- 
tude, then tucks his little head under his 
wing, goes fast to sleep, and leaves to-mor- 
row to look after itself. He is the best 
preacher that I have on earth." 

^ttuggitno; for <0o&*$ <5itt$ 

It is refreshing to find Caleb so heroic at 
eighty-five. Most old people ask for easy 
places, but Caleb had a young man's heart. 
He did not seek easy things. He asked for 
[326] 



Cfje Uobc of <0ob 



a mountain which giants still held, saying 
that he would drive them out. It develops 
our own powers and graces to have to fight 
to get possession of our inheritance. God 
puts the gold deep down among the rocks, 
that we must dig and search for it if we 
would get it. He gives a man a farm, but 
the farm has to be cleared and cultivated 
before it is ready to yield its harvest. He 
gives a young man a fine education, but the 
young man must study hard to get it. He 
gives a young girl splendid musical talent, 
and to get it developed into its possibilities 
she has to spend months and years in weary 
practice. God gives us great grace, holi- 
ness, likeness to Christ, power in Christian 
work, meekness, patience; but we must 
struggle long with ou«r old nature to obtain 
these gifts. 

$tt <Bon /Rear 

In the hardest experiences of life we are 
sure always of God's love. An Arctic ex- 
[ 327 ] 



Cfte OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



plorer was asked whether during the long 
months of slow starvation which he and his 
companions had endured, they suffered 
greatly from the pangs of hunger. He re- 
plied that these pangs were forgotten in 
the feeling that their friends at home had 
forgotten them and were not coming to 
rescue them. There is no suffering so 
bitter as the sense of abandonment, the 
thought that nobody cares. But however 
painful and hard our condition may be, 
however men may wrong us and injure us, 
Christian faith assures us that God loves 
us, that he has not forgotten us, that he 
cares. 

<H$t $®e$$ast of £ob* 

After the terrible earthquake and fire at San 
Francisco, some children far out in the coun- 
try were gathering up pieces of charred pa- 
per which had been carried by the currents of 
air. Among these fragments they found a 
partly burned leaf of the Bible. A boy 
[ 328 ] 



Cfje Hobe of <$ob 



found it and took it home to his father 
who smoothed it out and read for the first 
time the immortal words, "Now abideth 
faith, hope, love, these three, and the 
greatest of these is love." It was a strange 
message to come out of the great conflagra- 
tion — strange, but wonderfully fitting. 
Everything else of beauty and power had 
gone down in dust and ashes, but love re- 
mained — that was imperishable, and faith 
and hope remained. Nothing is worth liv- 
ing for but love — God's love and the love 
that it inspires. 

It is said that one day Carlyle suddenly 
stopped at a street crossing, and, stooping 
down, picked up something out of the mud, 
even at the risk of being knocked down and 
run over by passing vehicles. With his 
bare hands he gently rubbed the mud off 
this thing which he had picked up, holding 
it as carefully and touching it as gently 
[329] 



^fje <$lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



as if it had been something of great value. 
He took it to the pavement and laid it down 
on a clean spot on the curb-stone. "That," 
said the old man, in a tone of sweetness he 
rarely used, "is only a crust of bread. Yet 
I was taught by my mother never to waste 
anything, and, above all, bread, more 
precious than gold. I am sure that the 
little sparrows, or a hungry dog, will get 
nourishment from this bit of bread." 

This is a suggestion of the way God looks 
upon a human life which bears his image. 
The merest fragment of life he regards as 
sacred. So long as there is the least trace 
of divine possibility in a human soul, he 
is ready to make something out of it, to 
take it out of the mire and give it another 
chance. If, therefore, one has lost the op- 
portunity to realize God's first thought for 
his life, there still remains another chance. 
"The vessel that he made was marred in the 
hands of the potter; so he made it again — 
another vessel." 

In Florence, one of the treasures of art 
[330] 



Cfrt Hone of <$ob 



admired by thousands of visitors is Michael 
Angelo's representation in marble of the 
young David. The shepherd boy stands 
with firm foothold, the stone grasped tightly 
in his right hand, ready to be sped on its 
holy errand. When the statue was un- 
veiled, three hundred and fifty years ago, 
it caused an unparalleled sensation among all 
lovers of art. It is, indeed, a marvelous 
piece of sculpture. 

But the strangely winning thing in the 
story of that statue is that it was the 
stone's second chance. A sculptor began 
work on a noble piece of marble, but, lack- 
ing skill, he only hacked and marred the 
block. It was then abandoned as spoiled 
and worthless, and cast aside. For years 
it lay in a back yard, soiled and blackened, 
half hidden among the rubbish. At last 
Angelo saw it, and at once perceived its pos- 
sibilities. Under his skillful hand the stone 
was cut into the fair and marvelous beauty 
which appears in the statue of David. 



[831] 



Cfje OSIorp of tfje Commonplace 



ttlifmt could 

In a railroad accident a young fireman 
stood manfully at his post and was fatally 
hurt. Everything was done for him that 
kindness could do. A minister spoke to him 
of the love of Christ. 

"Yes," he gasped, "I do believe in Christ. 
But God knows I've had to work so hard, 
such long hours, and have been so tired at 
night that I have had no chance to pray 
much or to go to church." 

His brother stood by and broke in, "But 
he's been a good boy. He worked night and 
day to support our crippled mother — and 
me, when I was laid up for a year." 

"Yes, sir, and he took care of me," said 
a big baggageman, "when I had smallpox 
and nobody would come near me." 

"And more than once," added another 
young man, "he's taken my run, after com- 
ing in from his own, when I was too sick 
to go out." 

The poor fireman smiled on his friends — 
[ 332 ] 



Cfje Hobc of <$oo 



a smile of gratitude. He had never heard 
such praise. 

"God will not keep him out of heaven — 
will He?" said his brother, tenderly. 

The minister bent over the dying boy and 
said, reverently and with deep feeling: "The 
peace of God, the peace of Christ, be upon 
you. You have done what you could." 

Can we doubt the gentleness of Christ in 
such a case? He is infinitely patient with 
all whose lot is hard. He never exacts 
more of us than we can do. He is never 
unreasonable. He knows when the burdens 
are too heavy for us. Once He, "being 
wearied with his journey, sat down by the 
well" in his exhaustion. He sympathizes 
with those who are weary and helps them. 

ifoto CSoti's dfliotH piotog 

A Bible found its way into a home where 
a Bible had never been before. The man of 
the house began to read it aloud to his wife 
in the evenings, and the words entered their 
[ 333 ] 



Cfje <&lovv of tfje Commonplace 



hearts. One night, after reading aloud por- 
tions of the book, the man said, "Wife, if 
this book is true, we are wrong." The 
book condemned them. They became 
troubled. The Word was plowing its way 
into their hearts. Next evening, as they 
read again, the sense of sin in them became 
still deeper, and the man said, "Wife, if 
this book is true, we are lost!" They be- 
came very greatly distressed. The words 
they had read had shown them that they 
were sinners, guilty, lost. Next night they 
read again, and found something of hope — 
they had read of divine love and mercy, and 
the man said, "Wife, if this book is true, 
we can be saved." The Word of God does 
mighty plow-work in men's hearts before 
they can be made fruitful. 



[ 334 J 



XV 



An Eastern story tells of one who was dis- 
couraged because his prayers seemed not 
to be answered. An enemy taunted him, 
bidding him call louder, but a heavenly mes- 
sage brought him comfort, assuring him 
that his prayer to God really had the 
answer in itself. 

" 'Allah, Allah !* cried the sick man, racked with 

pain the long night through: 
Till with prayer his heart was tender, till his 

lips like honey grew. 
But at morning came the Tempter ; said, 'Call 

louder, child of pain! 
See if Allah ever hear, or answer, "Here am 

I" again/ 

[ 337 ] 



Cfje <®lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



"Like a stab, the cruel cavil through his brain 

and pulses went; 
To his heart an icy coldness, to his brain a 

darkness sent. 
Then before him stands Elias; says, 'My 

child! why thus dismayed? 
Dost repent thy former fervor? Is thy soul 

of prayer afraid?' 

"'Ah!' he cried, 'I've called so often; never 

heard the "Here am I"; 
And I thought, God will not pity, will not 

turn on me his eye/ 
Then the grave Elias answered, 'God said, 

"Rise, Elias, go, — 
Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him 

from his gulf of woe. 

" 1 "Tell him that his very longing is itself an 

answering cry; 
That his answer, 'Come, gracious Allah,' is 

my answer, 'Here am 1/ " ' 
Every inmost inspiration is God's angel un- 

defiled ; 

And in every 'O my Father!' slumbers deep 
a 'Here, my child!'" 



[ 338 ] 



£>ttt flflnangtomti ptapn# 

4- child may indolently shrink from the 
study, the regular hours, the routine, the 
drudgery, and the discipline of the school, 
begging the parents to let him stay at home 
from school and have an easy time; but 
what would you think of the father who 
would weakly and softly grant the child's 
request, releasing him from the tasks which 
are so irksome? Nothing more unkind could 
be done. The result would be the dwarfing of 
the child's life for all the future. Is God 
less wisely kind than our human fathers? 
He will not answer prayers which ask that 
we may be freed from duty or from work, 
since it is by these very things we grow. 
The only true answer in such prayers is 
the non-granting of what we ask. 

There is an ailment called sleeping sick- 
ness, which appears to be quite serious in 
[ 339 ] 



Cfje <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



some parts of the world, always terminating 
fatally. There would seem to be a moral 
trouble of the same kind. At least, there 
are people who are disposed to sleepiness 
and need to be waked up. The Psalmist felt 
that he needed to be waked up. He wanted 
to sing praises, but his harp hung silent on 
the wall and he calls, "Awake, psaltery and 
harp." There is a good deal of spiritual 
lethargy in many of us. We are sluggish 
and need to be roused up. The psalmist 
said he would awake right early. It is said 
that Dr. Adam Clark was in the habit of 
rising early. A young minister was lament- 
ing that he could not wake early, and asked 
the doctor how he had learned to do it. "I 
suppose you prayed a great deal about it?" 
"No," said the good man, "I got up." In- 
stead of praying to get spiritually awake, 
we should simply get up. Prayer is a 
mockery unless we rise and begin at once to 
do God's will. 



[340] 



ptaget anfc Mo Pra#*t 

It is told of a good man that in a great 
bereavement he was strangely, supernatural- 
ly calm and peaceful. It was discovered 
that some friends had agreed together to 
pray for him, that his faith might not fail. 
That was the secret of his wonderful ability 
to be victorious in sorrow. Thousands are 
strengthened for their struggles, and car- 
ried in safety through untold perils, be- 
cause loved ones are praying for them. 
Verily, "more things are wrought by prayer 
than this world dreams of." None of us 
know what we owe to the intercessions of 
those who love and pray for us. 

But there is another side. How many go 
down in their struggles, are defeated in 
their battles, are wrecked in life's storms, 
because no one is praying! A missionary 
came back from a preaching tour, and re- 
ported that there had been almost no bless- 
ing in his work. A good woman said, "Alas ! 
I am to blame. I did not pray this time 
[341] 



■ 

Cfje <$lorp of tfje Commonplace 



for you as I have always done before when 
you were out." A mother, seeing her son 
led away as a prisoner, arrested for crime, 
cried bitterly, "It is my fault; I did not 
pray enough for him !" 

%Mn$ Up to Out ptapitg 

There is an interesting story of a boy 
whose prayer was brought to a sudden 
pause by his conscience impelling him to 
run away and undo a bit of childish mis- 
chief before he could go on. The story runs 
thus : 

" 'If I should die 'fore I wake,' " said 
Donny, kneeling at grandmother's knee; 
" 'if I should die 'fore I wake—' " 

" 'I pray,' " prompted the gentle voice. 
"Go on, Donny." 

"Wait a minute," interposed the small 
boy, scrambling to his feet and hurrying 
away downstairs. In a brief space he was 
back again, and, dropping down in his 
place, took up his petition where he had left 
[ 342 ] 



it. But when the little white-gowned figure 
was safely tucked in bed the grandmother 
questioned, with loving rebuke, concerning 
the interruption in the prayer. "You didn't 
think what you were saying," she said 
apologetically. 

"But I did think what I was sayin', 
grandmother; that's why I had to stop. 
You see, I'd upset Ted's menagerie, and 
stood all his wooden soldiers on their heads, 
just to see how he'd tear 'round in the 
mornin'. But if I should die 'fore I wake, 
why I didn't want him to find 'em that 
way, so I had to go down and fix 'em right 
'fore I could go on. There's lots of things 
that seem funny if you're goin' to keep on 
livin', but you don't want 'em if you should 
die 'fore you wake." 

"That was right, dear; it was right," 
commended the voice, with its tender quaver. 
"A good many of our prayers wouldn't be 
hurt by stopping in the middle of them to 
undo a wrong." 

It would be well if all of us had a little 
[ 343 ] 



Cfje <®lorp of t&e Commonplace 



more of Donny's realism in our praying. It 
might stop the flow of our words sometimes, 
while we go out and set something right in 
the realm of action which in the divine 
presence we see to be wrong. But it would 
save us from some of the mockeries and in- 
sincerities of prayer which now so much 
mar our worship. 

man tije ^tmi ansfomfc? 

In a beautiful h*me a little child lay very 
sick. The young parents had once been 
active Christians, but in their first wedded 
happiness they had given up Christ, and 
had now no place in their home for God. 
Their happiness seemed complete when the 
baby came. Radiant were the days that fol- 
lowed. Their joy knew no bounds. Then 
the baby fell very sick. In their alarm the 
parents sought the offices of religion and 
earnest and continued prayers were offered 
by the little one's bedside. Great phy- 
sicians consulted together and all that 
[344] 



science could do was done. But the baby 
died. "God did not answer our prayers," 
the parents said, and they complained bit- 
terly. 

Years afterward the father wrote these 
words to a friend: "I believe now that if 
God had granted my ardent prayers for 
the life of my beautiful first-born son when 
he was taken sick at nine months old, I 
never would have been the man I am now; 
I would have remained the godless man I 
had then become. But when I stood with 
my despairing wife beside our dead baby, 
even feeling bitter toward God because he 
had not heard our cries, I remembered how 
I had departed from God, and returned to 
him with penitence and confession. The 
death of my boy brought me back to Christ." 
The prayers seemed unanswered. At least 
the answer came not as the father wished, 
but God's way was better. The boy's life 
was not spared, but the father was saved. 



[ 345 ] 



Cfje OSIorp of tfje Commonplace 



pray flDiu for another 

Some good people never go outside the 
circle of self in their prayers. Yet the 
last place in the world where we should be 
selfish is when we are on our knees. A 
minister made a strange request of a par- 
ishioner — that for a month he should not 
offer a single word of prayer for himself, 
or for any of his family, nor bring any of 
his own affairs to God. "What then shall 
I pray for?" asked the friend. "Anything 
that is in your heart, only not once for 
yourself." When the good man came to his 
first season of prayer it seemed that he 
could find nothing to pray for. He would 
begin a familiar petition, but had to drop 
it, for it was something for himself. It 
was a serious month for him, but he learned 
his lesson. He found that he had been 
praying only for himself, and his own house- 
hold, and had not been taking the interests 
of any others to God. The Lord's Prayer 
teaches us to pray for others with our- 
[346] 



selves. It is not, "Give me this day my 
daily bread," but, "Give us our bread to- 
day," leaving out no other hungry one. 

bearing tije €zo$$ 

It is told of President Lincoln that in one 
of the dark days of the American Civil 
War a poor woman came to plead that her 
husband or one of her five sons in the army 
might be released to care for the little farm 
and to be a comfort to her. Mr. Lincoln 
spoke to her with deep emotion of the great 
crisis through which the country was pass- 
ing, telling her that not one soldier could 
be spared. Then he spoke of the noble part 
she was doing in sparing her husband and 
all her sons to the country. He told her 
he thought that in the great need she would 
not want to take back even one of them. 
As she listened, her patriotism rose, and 
she withdrew her request, and went back 
home to share loyally and gladly in the sav- 
ing of the country. So it is that God ap- 
[347] 



Cfje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



peals to us when we seek relief from crosses 
or sorrows, until we are ready for his sake 
to go on in our life of greatest self-denial 
and sacrifice. Our unanswered prayers seem 
better than if they were answered. 

Some friends wanted to know how the holy 
Bengel prayed, and watched him at his de- 
votions one night. He opened his New 
Testament and read slowly and silently, 
often pausing in meditation, or as if listen- 
ing to the voice of gentle stillness. There 
was a glow in his features, and frequently 
he would look up as if he saw a face his 
watchers could not see. Thus an hour 
passed. He had not once been on his knees, 
nor had he been heard to utter a word. 
Then as the clock struck the hour for his 
retiring he closed the book, saying only, 
"Dear Lord Jesus, we are on the same old 
terms," and went to his bed. That was 
truest prayer. That is what it is to pray 
[ 348 ] 



draper TLti&ani 



without ceasing — to be always near enough 
to God to talk with him, always to be drink- 
ing in his love even in our busiest hours. 

Sit prayer 

When General Gordon was with his army 
in Khartoum it is said that there was an 
hour every day when a white handkerchief 
lay over his tent door. While that signal 
was there no one, however high his rank, 
ever approached the tent. The most urgent 
business waited outside. Every one knew 
that Gordon was at prayer that hour 
within the tent, and not a man nor an 
officer came near until the handkerchief was 
lifted away. 

There is always a sacredness about 
prayer. We instantly withdraw if unawares 
we suddenly come upon one engaged in 
prayer. We are awed into reverence when 
we see any one, however humble, bowing in 
prayer. But the sight of Christ at prayer 
touches us with still deeper awe. We un- 
[349] 



Cfje 4Morp of tfje Commonplace 



cover our heads, and take off our shoes, 
and stand afar off in reverent hush while 
he bows before his Father and communes 
with him. Yet no figure is more familiar 
in the Gospels than the Master at prayer. 

# pra^r an* ft£ <£ Uett 

One night many years ago two young men 
were put into the same room in an English 
country inn. One of them was a heedless, 
thoughtless youth. The other, when the 
time for retiring came, quietly knelt down 
beside the bed and prayed in silence. His 
companion was strangely impressed. Fifty 
years afterward he wrote, "That scene, so 
unostentatious and so unconcealed, aroused 
my slumbering conscience, and sent an ar- 
row into my heart." The result was the 
young man's conversion to God, followed 
by long years of service as a Christian min- 
ister and as a writer of books which have 
greatly blessed the world. "Nearly half a 
century has rolled away," he wrote again, 
[ 350 ] 



draper Hesson* 



"with its multitudinous events, but that old 
chamber, that humble couch, that silently 
praying youth, are still present in my imag- 
ination and will never be forgotten, even 
amid the splendors of heaven and through 
the ages of eternity." 

A lawyer came to his client and said he 
could not prosecute a certain claim. The 
client wanted to know the reason. The 
lawyer told him of a visit he had made. 

"I found the house and knocked, but no- 
body heard me. So I stepped into the little 
hall, and through a crack in the door I 
saw a cozy sitting-room, and on the bed, 
her head high on the pillows, an old woman. 
I was about to knock again, when the wom- 
an said: 'Come, father, now begin. I am 
all ready.' Down on his knees by her side 
went the old, white-haired man, and I could 
not have knocked then for the life of me. 

"Well, he began. First he reminded God 
[351 ] 



Cije OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



that they were still his submissive children, 
and that whatever he saw fit to bring upon 
them, they would accept. It would be hard 
for them to be homeless in their old age. 
How different it would have been if at least 
one of the boys had been spared! 

"The old man's voice broke then, and a 
thin white hand stole from under the cover- 
let and moved softly through his snowy hair. 
He went on presently, saying that noth- 
ing ever could be so hard again as the part- 
ing with the three boys had been — unless 
mother and he should be separated. Then 
he quoted several promises assuring the 
safety of those who put their trust in God. 
Last of all he prayed for God's blessing on 
those who were demanding justice." 

The lawyer then said to his client, "I 
would rather go to the poorhouse to-night 
myself than to stain my hands and heart 
with such persecution as that." 

"Afraid to defeat the old man's prayer?" 
asked the client, with hard tone. 

"Bless your soul, man," said the lawyer, 
[352 ] 



"you couldn't defeat that prayer. Of all 
the pleading I ever heard that moved me 
most. Why I was sent to hear that prayer 
I am sure I do not know. But I hand the 
case over." 

"I wish," said the client uneasily, "that 
you hadn't told me about the old man's 
prayer." 

"Why so?" 

"Well, because I want the money that the 
house would bring. I was taught the Bible 
myself when I was a boy, and I hate to 
run against it. I wish you hadn't heard a 
word the old man said. Another time I 
would not listen to petitions not intended 
for my ears." 

The lawyer smiled. "My dear fellow," he 
said, "you are wrong again. That prayer 
was intended for my ears, and yours, too. 
God Almighty meant it so. My mother used 
to sing, 'God moves in a mysterious way.' " 

"Well, my mother used to sing that, too," 
said the client, and he twisted the claim 
papers in his fingers. "You can call in the 
[ 353 ] 



Cfje OBlorp of tfje Commonplace 



morning, and tell mother and him that the 
claim has been met." 

God will always find some way to answer 
His children's prayers. We need not trou- 
ble ourselves as to how he can do this — 
that is not our matter. All we have to do 
is to lay our need before the throne of 
mercy, and to let God answer us as He will. 

In Wellesley College a special feature of 
the daily life of the household is the morn- 
ing and evening "silent time." Both at the 
opening and closing of the day, there is a 
brief period, marked by the strokes of a 
bell, in which all the house is quiet. Every 
pupil is in her room. There is no conversa- 
tion. No step is heard in the corridors. 
The whole great house with its thronging 
life is as quiet as if all its hundreds of in- 
mates were sleeping. There is no positively 
prescribed way of spending these silent min- 
[354] 



utes in the rooms, but it is understood that 
all whose hearts so incline them shall devote 
the time to devotional reading, meditation, 
and prayer. At least, the design of estab- 
lishing this period of quiet as part of the 
daily life of the school, is to give oppor- 
tunity for such devotional exercises, and by 
its solemn hush to suggest to all the fitness, 
the helpfulness, and the need of such periods 
of communion with God. The bell that calls 
for silence, also calls to thought and prayer ; 
and even the most indifferent must be af- 
fected by its continual recurrence. 



[ 355 ] 



XVI 

Clje Vision Glorious 



Cfje Vision OBlorioua 



Intention^ not flEnottgf) 

Standing before a masterpiece of art in 
one of the Old World's galleries, a young 
artist said to Ruskin: "Ah! if I could put 
such a dream on canvas!" "Dream on can- 
vas!" growled the critic; "it will take ten 
thousand touches of the brush on the can- 
vas to make your dream." Looking at the 
divine ideal of an unanxious life, as we see 
it, first in the words and then in the char- 
acter of Jesus, we are all ready to wish 
we might realize it. But wishing alone will 
never lift us up to this holy beauty. We 
must toil to reach it. It will take ten thou- 
sand touches of the brush to put the 
dream on canvas. Mere dreaming does 
little. Chiseled on the tomb of a disap- 
[ 359 ] 



Cfte OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



pointed, heart-broken king, Joseph II of 
Austria, in the royal cemetery at Vienna, 
is this pitiable epitaph: "Here lies a mon- 
arch who, with the best intentions, never 
carried out a single plan." Not thus can 
we learn our lesson. Good intentions will 
do nothing unless they are wrought into 
deeds and into character. Better far was 
the spirit of Joan of Arc, who, when asked 
the secret of the victoriousness of her fa- 
mous white standard, replied: "I said to it, 
'Go boldly among the English,' and then I 
followed it myself." Thus only can we win 
the splendor of a life without worry. We 
must have our good intentions, and send 
them forward like white banners, but we 
must follow them ourselves. We must put 
our dreams into beautiful life. 

Thus day by day, "no day without a 
line," we may get the lesson learned. Christ 
will help us if we try in his name. As we 
go forward, he will make the struggle easier 
for us. He will make the dreams come 
true as we strive to make them real. 
[ 360 ] 



filing tfje <W§m%$ &babe 

There is a story of a man wh® in youth 
once found a gold coin on the street. Ever 
after, as he walked, he kept his eyes on 
the ground, looking for coins. He found 
one now and then, but he never saw the 
trees, the hills, the glorious landscapes, or 
the blue sky. The tendency of our ab- 
sorbed business life, with its weary grind 
and struggle, is to hold our eyes ever on the 
dusty earth, causing us to miss the sight of 
the things that are above. St. Paul's coun- 
sel is that since we are raised together with 
Christ, we should seek the things that are 
above, where Christ is. A life which runs 
only along on the ground, with no elevation 
in it, no thought of heaven or of God, no 
vision of Christ, is unworthy of a child of 
God. We should get time every day, for 
a little while, at least, to think of God, to 
look into the face of Christ, and to gaze 
upon the heavenly hills. 



[861] 



Cfje <®lorp of tfje Commonplace 



&ttin$ fyt 15tautie$ of H2*aten 

There was a godly man who built himself 
a house. It was a pleasant home, with 
many comforts. There was joy in it. But 
he said that the best thing about his 
home was that, sitting at his own fireside, 
he could see his father's house away on a 
distant hill-top. "No matter the weather," 
said he, "whether winter or summer, spring 
or autumn; no matter the sky, whether 
cloudless or stormy, — when I sit by my east 
window, my father's roof and chimney tops, 
and the door into my father's house, are 
always visible to my sight. Then, when 
night comes, no matter the darkness, for 
far away over the fields and valleys gleams 
the light in my father's windows." Happy 
is he who builds his earthly dwelling where 
from its doors he can ever see afar off his 
heavenly Father's house with its many man- 
sions ; and where, even in the darkest nights, 
its lights shine down upon him with their 
kindly cheer. He will then never be lonely 
[ 362 ] 



nor afraid. He will never lose hope. He 
will breathe heaven's sweetness, and catch 
the accents of heaven's songs, and his eye 
will be charmed with glimpses of heaven's 
beauties. 

Wbt Call to tfie JLat$ez %itt 

A traveler tells of holding in his hand the 
egg of a rare East India bird which was 
so near the hatching that the bird inside 
was pecking away at the shell. He could 
hear it struggling to get out. It was shut 
away in the darkness, cramped, confined, 
but it was not content to stay there. It 
seemed to know that there was a larger life 
for it outside, that on wings it might soar 
away to greet the morning light, that it 
might see splendors of beauty, that it 
might look on mountains, valleys, and rivers, 
and bathe in the pure air of sunny skies. 
This bird in the shell is a picture of the 
higher nature which is within every human 
life. It is not satisfied. It is a prisoner 
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Cfje OMorp of tfje Commonplace 



longing to be liberated. It is conscious of 
a wider freedom, a larger liberty, that is 
possible to it. We are made for commu- 
nion with God. The mission of Christ to 
us is to bring us out into this larger, fuller 
life. Instead of vainly trying to satisfy 
our spiritual needs and cravings at earth's 
fountains, he leads us to heaven's fountains. 
He reveals to us the love of God. He tells 
us that we are God's children, and brings 
us into intimate relations with our Father 
in heaven. He gives us intimations of a 
future for ourselves that is full of blessed- 
ness and glory. He calls us to this larger 
life. 

Oofci ULU& 'Cfytxt 

Some time since two men met on a vessel 
crossing the Atlantic. They soon discov- 
ered that they had both been in the Ameri- 
can Civil War, one fighting with the North, 
the other with the South. They discovered, 
too, that they had taken part, on one occa- 
[364] 



Cfje Piston Glorious! 



sion, in the same battle. Then this inci- 
dent came out as they talked together rem- 
iniscently. One night the Northern soldier 
was on sentry duty on one side of a little 
river, and the Southern soldier was a sharp- 
shooter just across the river, picking off 
soldiers on the other side at every oppor- 
tunity. The sentry was singing softly, 
"Jesus, Lover of my Soul," as he kept his 
watch, and the words of the old hymn were 
heard in the still night over the stream. 
The sharpshooter was taking aim and was 
about to fire on the sentry. Just then he 
heard the words, "Cover my defenceless 
head with the shadow of thy wing." His 
rifle dropped — he dare not shoot a man 
praying that prayer. "I could as soon have 
shot my own mother," he said. Was not 
God in this whole incident? Was he not a 
reality that night? We need not ask why 
no one has ever seen God. Lift up your 
eyes unto the mountains in every time of 
need, and God will always help. 



[ 365 ] 



Cfje O&orp of tfje Commonplace 



gibing in Safety 

A tourist tells of earning upon a village 
which nestled on the bosom of a great 
mountain. He asked the villagers if they 
had many storms. "Yes," they replied, "if 
there is a storm anywhere in the neighbor- 
hood it seems to find us out." "How do 
you account for this?" asked the visitor. 
They answered, "Those who seem to know 
say it is because of the mountain which 
towers above our village. If he sees a 
cloud anywhere in the horizon he beckons 
to it until it settles on his brow." The vis- 
itor inquired further if they had many 
accidents from lightning. "Not one," they 
replied. "We have seen the lightning strike 
the mountain countless times, — and a grand 
sight it is, — but no one in the village is ever 
touched. We have the thunder which shakes 
our houses, and then we have the rain which 
fills our gardens with beauty that every one 
so much admires." 

This is a parable of what Jesus Christ 
[366] 



is to us and to all who believe in him. He 
is the mountain on which the storms break. 
On Calvary the tempests of ages burst about 
his head. But all who nestle in his love 
are sheltered in him. "In me ye shall have 
peace," he said. He is our eternal Keeper 
because he took the storms on his own breast 
that we might hide in safety under the 
shadow of His love. 

* 

Seamen grow anxious when for many hours 
they cannot get a sight of the heavenly 
bodies to take observations. No one is safe 
in this trackless world who does not keep 
his eye upon the heavenly hills. No direc- 
tion of life is safe but that which looks to 
God for its guidance. A story is told of 
a lady traveling through a dense forest in 
the South. She was overtaken by night and 
lost her way. The driver dismounted and 
began to walk about among the trees, try- 
[367] 



Cfje <®lorj> of tfje Commonplace 



ing to find the road. The lady noticed in 
the dim light of the stars that his face was 
turned toward the sky. She asked him why 
he was looking upward, when what he want- 
ed to find was in the road in the woods. 
The man answered, "If I can find the path 
in the sky I can find the road on the 
ground." He knew that the only place in 
the thick forest where the sky could be seen 
through the dense branches was where the 
trees had been cut away in making the 
road. To find the opening overhead was 
to find the way on the ground. Ever it is 
true that earth's right paths are marked 
out for us in the sky. We must look to 
the hills in our perplexity for guidance. 

flDut of tje jfoff 

We all have our special days, when we go 
up to the hilltop, out of our low valleys, 
and get a wider vision. It is well to have 
such a day even occasionally, but it would 
C 368 ] 



be better if we should live on the hills all 
the while. Some people stay always down 
amid the mists and never get to see a moun- 
tain-top. They never behold the sun. They 
never breathe the atmosphere of heaven. A 
little dog, one chill autumn day, was seen 
to get up from where he was lying in a dark 
corner of a room, and go and lie down in a 
patch of sunshine which he saw on the floor. 
The dog teaches us a good lesson. There are 
always bright spots in even the darkest ex- 
perience, and we should find them and live 
much in them. 

* 

fLot&itiQ WLnto t^t 

In portions of the great West of the United 
States there are vast tracts of land which 
not so many years ago were only deserts. 
The soil was wondrously fertile, but there 
was no water. Little rain fell, and scarcely 
anything would grow. Yet yonder all the 
while were the mountains with their melting 
snows and their flowing streams. All that 
[369 ] 



Cfje aSlorj) of tfje Commonplace 



was needed to transform these desert val- 
leys into gardens was to bring the blessing 
of the mountains to them. Men lifted up 
their eyes to the hills for help, and the re- 
sult is seen to-day in the great orange-groves 
and all the unparalleled luxuriance of 
Southern California, and in the garden 
beauty and fertility of other portions of 
the country. 

This is a parable. All over the world 
there are men and women with possibilities 
of rich spiritual life. They might become 
great blessings in the world. They might 
be like trees bearing much fruit for the 
glory of God and to feed the world's hun- 
gers. But with all their natural gifts their 
lives are like deserts. They live only for 
themselves. They do not know the secrets 
of service. They are weak in the presence 
of the world's evil, and fall before its temp- 
tations. They have no power to help others 
in their deep needs. 

Yet all the while, yonder rise the hills of 
God above their heads, with their treasures of 
[370] 



'Cfje ^feton Glorious 



life and power, available to faith and prayer. 
If only they would lift up their eyes to the 
mountains they would find what they need to 
change the desert of their lives into gardens. 
If through the channels of faith and love 
they would bring the grace of heaven down 
into their barrenness and emptiness they 
would henceforth be like fields which the Lord 
hath blessed. 

Hty Inmi JLitt 

It will help us to endure physical suffering 
quietly and unmurmuringly, if we will re- 
member that it is only the outward man 
that can be touched and affected by these 
experiences, and that the inward man may 
not only be kept unharmed but may be 
growing all the while in beauty and strength. 

A poor shoemaker, in his dreary little 
shop in a great city, one day found by 
accident that there was one little place in 
his dark room from which he could get a 
[371] 



^fje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



view, through a window, of green fields, blue 
skies and far-away hills. He wisely set his 
bench at that point, so that at any moment 
he could lift his eyes from his dull work 
and have a glimpse of the great, beautiful 
world outside. From the darkest sick-room 
and from the midst of the keenest suffer- 
ings there is always a point from which we 
can see the face of Christ and have a 
glimpse of the glory of heaven. If only 
we will find this place and get this vision, 
it will make it easy to endure even the 
greatest suffering. 

Wbe Mtatm&0 of Cfjttet 

We think of Christ as in heaven and so He 
is; but He is just as really on the earth 
as in heaven. A recent writer happily illus- 
trates this by the sky. We look up at the 
sky and it seems far away, like a great blue 
arch or canopy, high above us. But where 
does the sky really begin? Not up in the 
air, above the hills and the mountains. It 
[372] 



Cfje Huston OStorioug 



begins right beside us. Indeed, the sky is 
all about us. We walk in it. We sit down 
in it. We sleep in it. It is all about our 
house at night. We breathe the sky and 
draw nourishment for our life out of it. 
The rain comes out of the sky to refresh 
the earth and make it beautiful. This illus- 
trates the nearness to us of the living Christ. 
We walk in Him. In Him we live and move 
and have our being. He is never so far 
off as even to be near — He is more than 
near. He wraps round about us continu- 
ally with His blessed life. We breathe Christ 
if we are His friends. 

Could there be a truer representation of 
the living Christ than this? There is no 
part of the whole life of any of us, whether 
good or bad, whether it be a holy scene of 
kindness, of helpfulness, of devotion, or a 
scene of frivolity or sin in which we would 
be ashamed to have ourselves caught and 
photographed — there is nothing in the life 
of any of our days or nights in which 
Christ is not. 

[ 373 ] 



Cfje OSlorp of tfje Commonplace 



Invitation from beaten 

It is said that at a certain moment of the 
night a man in the Lick Observatory, Cali- 
fornia, lying upon his back, looks out 
through the great telescope and waits for 
a certain star to cross a fine line made by 
the tiny thread of. a spider's web drawn 
across the telescope. This indicates the 
time, and from this indication the great 
clock is set. Thus a star from heaven directs 
the movements of all the railway trains, 
all shops and factories, all business of every 
kind in all the vast region. So we are to 
get light from heaven for all our life on 
earth, not only for our worship, our relig- 
ious activities, our Christian service, but for 
our business affairs, our amusements, all our 
tasks and duties, our home matters, our 
plans and pleasures. The light of the skies 
regulates everything. The smallest things 
in our lives should get their inspiration from 
heaven. All life should follow the Star. 



[374] 



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